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Ralph    Waldo  Emerson. 


SOME   NOTED 


V 


PRINCES,  AUTHORS,  AND  STATESMEN 


OF    OUR     TIME. 


BY 


CANON  FARRAR,  JAMES  T.  FIELDS,  ARCHIBALD  FORBES, 

E.   P.  WHIPPLE,  JAMES    PARTON,   LOUISE 

CHANDLER   MOULTON, 


AND   OTHERS. 


EDITED     BY     JAMES     PARTON. 


NEW  YORK : 
THOMAS     Y.    CROWELL     &     CO., 

13   Astor   Place. 


) 


Copyright,  1885, 
By  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO 


ELECTROTYPED 
BV    RAND,   AVERY,   AND  COMPANY, 

■nwiCK  «  •kith,  *»m««t,  kxton. 


PREFACE. 


I  "'ROM  the  earliest  ages,  readers  have  shown  a  desire  to  know 
-*•  something  of  the  habits  and  demeanor  of  the  authors  who  have 
pleased  them.  We  find,  too,  that  this  natural  and  harmless  curiosity- 
has  been  abundantly  gratified,  for  almost  every  kind  of  Johnson  that 
has  appeared  in  the  world  has  had  in  his  train  the  species  of  Boswell 
suited  to  him.  Plato  himself  took  evident  pleasure  in  recording 
trifling  details  of  Socrates'  conduct  and  conversation. 

The  taste  for  information  of  this  kind  may  become  excessive ;  and, 
of  late,  it  has  been  frequently  gratified  at  the  expense  of  decency  and 
justice.  Literature  itself  has  suffered  some  opprobrium  from  the  need- 
less and  disproportionate  exhibition  of  the  foibles  and  limitations  of 
gifted  persons,  on  the  system  devised  by  the  author  of  "  The  Devil 
on  Two  Sticks." 

If  we  ask  a  public  benefactor  to  sit  for  his  portrait  for  our  grati- 
fication, we  should  not  deny  him  the  privilege  of  brushing  his  hair, 
and  arranging  his  cravat,  before  going  to  the  photographer's. 

The  reader  will  find  in  this  volume  a  number  of  articles  upon 
noted  persons,  written,  for  the  most  part,  by  noted  persons,  who  have 
known  them  familiarly,  or  have  visited  them  in  favorable  circum- 
stances. Nearly  all  the  essays  were  written  originally  for  "  The 
Youth's  Companion"  of  Boston, — a  periodical  conducted  with  extraor- 
dinary liberality,  tact,  and  success,  now  advanced  some  years  into 
the  second  half-century  of  its  existence.  Few  volumes  have  ever  been 
published  containing  so  many  interesting  names,  whether  as  subjects 
or  as  authors  ;  and  I  believe  there  is  nothing  in  any  of  them  which 
violates  the  reasonable  privacy  of  public  individuals. 


VI  PREFACE. 

If  I  may  judge  from  my  own  pleasure  in  reading  these  sketches, 
the  reader  will  find  most  of  them  to  possess  unusual  interest.  He 
will  have  the  happiness  of  seeing  Charles  Dickens  in  his  most  enga- 
ging hours,  delineated  by  his  daughter ;  and  Dean  Stanley  of  Westmin- 
ster Abbey,  described  by  Canon  Farrar,  his  associate  and  colleague. 
He  will  see  Thackeray,  sitting  on  a  trunk,  chatting  with  a  chance 
acquaintance ;  and  the  illustrious  Victor  Hugo,  as  he  appears,  day  by 
day,  to  his  secretary  and  amanuensis.  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Prescott, 
Willis,  Whittier,  Beaconsfield,  Gladstone,  Macaulay,  Choate,  and  many 
others,  are  described  for  us  here  by  those  who  have  seen  and  known 
them  well.  Here,  also,  are  emperors,  kings,  queens,  princes,  and  other 
ornamental  personages,  who  excite  the  curiosity  even  of  the  stanch- 
est  Republicans,  often  their  compassion,  and  sometimes  their  cordial 
respect. 

I  commend  the  volume  to  the  favorable  regard  of  the  public. 

JAMES  PARTON. 
Newburyport,  May  i,  1885. 


CONTENTS. 


Reminiscences  of  Arthur  Penrhyn  Stanley  .    .    . 
A  Morning  with  Dr.  Francis  Trevelyan  Buckland  . 

Dickens  with  his  Children 

Recollections  of  Dickens 

Recollections  of  Thackeray 

A  Day  with  Mrs.  Dinah  Mulock  Craik 

A  Meeting  with  George  Eliot 

The  House  of  Commons 

Four  Famous  Scenes  in  the  House  of  Commons     . 

Lord  Beaconsfield 

The  Prince  of  Wales  at  Home 

The  Three  Daughters  of  the  Princess  of  Wales  . 

King  and  Queen  of  Denmark 

Royal  Children  of  Denmark 

The  King  of  Bavaria 

End  of  Prince  Louis  Napoleon 

Recollections  of  Leigh  Hunt 

Mary  Russell  Mitford 

Charles  Lamb 

Thomas  Hood 

Thomas  Campbell 

College  Life  of  Macaulay 

Thomas  Carlyle 

Tea  with  Carlyle 

Carlyle:  His  Work  and  his  Wife 

Victor  Hugo  at  Home 

Victor  Hugo 


PAGE 

Canon  F.  W.  Farrar .     . 

I 

William  H.  Rideing  .     . 

25 

Mamie  Dickens .... 

30 

James  T.  Fields     .     .     . 

48 

Charles  H.  Brainard 

•      52 

Sarah  M.  Dawson      .     . 

57 

Mrs.  John  Lillie    .     .     . 

62 

William  H.  Rideing  .     . 

66 

Henry  W.  Lucy      .     . 

72 

Canon  F.  W.  Farrar .     . 

93 

Archibald  Forbes    . 

100 

Nugent  Robinson    .     .     . 

107 

Carl  Steen  de  Bille 

112 

Carl  Steen  de  Bille     .     .     . 

116 

Mrs.  John  Lillie    .     .     . 

121 

Archibald  Forbes    .     .     .     . 

!3J 

James  T.  Fields     .     .     .     . 

138 

James  T.  Fields     .     .     .     . 

142 

James  T.  Fields      .     .     .     . 

146 

James  T.  Fields     .     .     .     . 

151 

James  T.  Fields      .     .     .     . 

i57 

E.  P.  Whipple 

164 

James  Parton 

*73 

Anonymous 

178 

Louise  Chandler  Moulton    . 

183 

Richard  Lesclide    .     .     .     . 

188 

James  Parton 

204 

Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


St.  Pierre James  T.  Fields     . 

Jules  Grew James  Pat-ton    .    . 

Sir  Walter  Scott James  T.  Fields    . 

Sir  Walter  Scott's  Home Louise  Chandler  Moulton 

Charles  Kingsley E.  P.  Whipple  .    . 

Lord  Coleridge  and  the  English  Law  Courts  .    .  W.  L.  Woodroffe    . 

Charles  H.  Spurgeon Louise  Chandler  Moulton 

William  Macready James  Parton    .    . 

Anecdotes  of  Jenny  Lind Anonymous  .    .    .    , 

A  Grandson  of  Robert  Burns Will  Carleton    .    . 

Mr.  Gladstone James  Parton   .    . 

Mr.  Gladstone  in  the  House Louise  Chandler  Moulton 

College  Life  of  Rufus  Choate E.  P.  Whipple  .    .    . 

Reminiscences  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson    ....  Louisa  M.  Alcott   .    . 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow J.  T.  Trowbridge  .    . 

The  College  Life  of  Prescott  the  Historian   .    .  Edwin  P.  Whipple    . 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis James  Parton   .    .    . 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne's  College  Days G.  P.  Lathrop   .    .    . 

The  Home  of  J.  G.  Whittier Hezekiah  Butterworth 

The  Czar,  Alexander  II.,  in  the  Field,  1877  .    .    .  Archibald  Forbes    . 

ADOLPHE  Thiers Anonymous   .... 

Queen  Victoria Louise  Chandler  Moulton 

Recollections  of  Abraham  Lincoln Ben :  Perley  Poore 


PAGE 
211 
2l6 
221 

225 
23O 

237 
242 
247 
252 

257 
26l 
272 
277 
284 
289 
297 
306 
312 

3r9 
324 
33 1 
336 
347 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson Frontispiece. 

Rugby  School 3 

Jerusalem  Chamber,  etc.,  —  Westminster  Abbey 15 

Westminster  Abbey 21 

Dr.  F.  T.  Buckland 28 

Charles  Dickens  with  his  Children 32 

The  Rehearsal 38 

Charles  Dickens  with  his  Dogs 42 

Waiting  for  the  New  Year 46 

W.  M.  Thackeray 53 

The  Home  of  Mrs.  Craik 59 

Grift  House 63 

Entrance  to  House  of  Commons 69 

Earl  of  Beaconsfield 75 

The  Expulsion  of  the  Irish  Members 79 

Mr.  Bradlaugh 85 

Mr.  Gladstone 89 

Lord  Beaconsfield 95 

The  Prince  of  Wales  at  Home 103 

The  Daughters  of  the  Princess  of  Wales 108 

The  King  and  Queen  of  Denmark 113 

King  George  of  Greece  and  the  Empress  of  Russia 119 

The  King  and  Royal  Palace  of  Bavaria 123 

The  Royal  Family  of  Bavaria 127 

The  Death  of  Prince  Napoleon 135 

Charles  Lamb 147 

Thomas  Hood 154 


x  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGE 

Thomas  Campbell 160 

College  Life  of  Macaulay 167 

Tea  with  Carlyle       ..." 181 

Thomas  Carlyle 185 

Victor  Hugo  at  Home 189 

Victor  Hugo  and  his  Grandchildren 195 

Victor  Hugo's  Garden  and  his  Study 201 

Victor  Hugo 207 

Jules  Grevy 217 

Edinburgh  Castle 226 

Home  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 227 

Charles  Kingsley 233 

Lord  Coleridge 239 

Charles  H.  Spurgeon 245 

Jenny  Lind 253 

Mr.  Gladstone  and  House  of  Parliament 273 

Rufus  Choate 281 

Birthplace  of  Longfellow 291 

Longfellow's  Early  Home 293 

Longfellow's  Home  in  Cambridge 295 

William  H.  Prescott 301 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis 309 

Hawthorne  and  his  Home 315 

John  G.  Whittier 321 

Mr.  Whittier's  Birthplace 322 

Oak  Knoll,  Danvers 323 

Alexander  II.,  Czar  of  Russia 325 

The  Czar  in  the  Field 329 

Adolphe  Thiers 333 

Queen  Victoria 339 

Prince  Albert 343 

Prince  Albert  Memorial 344 

Asia  (Albert  Memorial) 345 

America  (Albert  Memorial) 345 

Abraham  Lincoln 349 


REMINISCENCES   OF 

ARTHUR   PENRHYN   STANLEY. 


By  CANON   F.  W.   FARRAR. 

I. 

IT  is  needless  to  say  that  I  have  not  the  least  intention  of  intruding 
upon  the  province  of  the  biographer.  He  who  writes  the  life  of 
Dean  Stanley  will  not  have  before  him  an  easy  task.  He  will  be  writ- 
ing the  biography  of  a  man,  who,  among  his  many  exquisite  gifts,  was 
himself  one  of  the  most  excellent  of  biographers. 

His  deeply  affectionate  spirit,  availing  itself  of  an  almost  unrivalled 
literary  skill,  has  invested  the  memorials  of  his  father,  mother,  and 
sister  with  an  indescribable  charm  ;  and  his  life  of  Dr.  Arnold  will 
always  live  among  the  classic  works  of  our  language.  That  book,  the 
earliest  which  he  ever  wrote,  has  added  in  no  small  degree  to  Dr. 
Arnold's  fame,  and  has  extended  the  legacy  of  his  example  to  regions 
which  otherwise  it  would  never  have  reached. 

But,  besides  this,  —  besides  the  nameless  grace  which  hung  about 
all  his  actions,  and  made  even  casual  acquaintances  think  of  him  with 
the  feelings  which  we  usually  reserve  for  our  dearest  friends,  —  Dr. 
Stanley  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable  figures  of  the  age  in  which 
he  lived. 

An  eminent  English  dignitary,  who  was  not  among  the  number  of 
those  many  theological  controversialists  to  whom  the  mention  of  Stan- 
ley's name  was  the  signal  for  an  anathema  maranatha,  once  said  to  me, 
"  I  think  that  another  generation  will  regard  him  as  having  been  the 
foremost  ecclesiastic  of  his  age." 

I  incline  to  agree  with  that  judgment.  I  will  say  nothing  of  living 
men,  and  shall  therefore  be  spared  the  task  of  comparing  their  merits 


2  ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 

# 

with  his.  But  I  have  often  heard  the  late  Bishop  of  Winchester, 
Samuel  Wilberforce,  spoken  of  as  the  first  Churchman  of  his  time  ; 
and  I  do  not  think  that  the  work  and  influence  of  Bishop  Wilberforce 
are  at  all  comparable  to  the  work  and  influence  of  Dean  Stanley. 

It  is  true  that  Stanley  had  no  pretension  to  that  splendid  power  of 
oratory  with  which  the  great  bishop  used  to  delight  the  world  when  he 
was  at  the  zenith  of  his  fame.  In  his  later  years,  the  bishop  either 
grew  more  indifferent,  or  age  had  made  him  "  speak  with  a  diminished 
fire,  and  think  with  a  diminished  force  :  "  but  I  remember  having  heard 
some  of  his  great  speeches  when  I  was  a  boy ;  and  the  "rolling  words, 
oration-like,"  of  that  powerful  and  thrilling  voice,  will  live  in  my  memory 
till  I  die. 

I  well  remember  one  occasion  at  King's  College,  London,  when  I 
saw  the  late  Archbishop  Sumner  and  Monsieur  Guizot  and  Dean  Buck- 
land  and  Mr.  Gladstone,  with  other  men  of  eminence,  hanging  on  his 
lips.  Dean  Stanley  never  possessed  this  gift  of  overpowering  elo- 
quence. But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  fascination  of  the  orator  soon 
fades  into  a  dim  tradition  ;  and  the  writings  of  Bishop  Wilberforce  are 
of  little  permanent  -importance,  nor  are  his  sermons  likely  to  live  as 
written  compositions. 

Dean  Stanley,  on  the  other  hand,  has  most  powerfully  moulded  the 
views  of  his  age.  It  now  seems  as  if  a  full  century  must  separate  us 
from  the  days  when  his  friend,  Dean  Milman,  was  fiercely  attacked  by 
the  anger  of  an  alarmed  orthodoxy,  simply  because  he  had  spoken  of 
Abraham  as  "an  Eastern  Sheik."  But  the  change  has  been  chiefly  due 
to  the  late  Dean  of  Westminster.  His  lectures  on  the  Jewish  Church 
marked  an  epoch.  In  these  volumes  he  applied  his  "  picturesque  sen- 
sibility" to  sacred  subjects;  and,  investing  the  ancient  annals  of  the 
chosen  people  with  all  the  brightness  of  contemporary  history,  he  made 
the  world  feel  that  Abraham  and  Isaac  and  Jacob  and  David  and  Isaiah 
were  not  shadowy  emblems  and  dim  abstractions,  but  living,  breathing 
human  beings,  of  like  passions  and  temptations  with  ourselves. 

It  was  an  inestimable  service  which  he  thus  rendered.  He  made 
the  Bible,  not  a  supernatural  oracle,  but  a  loving  voice  of  friendly  guid- 
ance. Into  the  dead  letter  he  infused  a  living  spirit.  Heroes  and 
patriarchs  of  the  old  dispensation,  at  whom  men  had  only  gazed  as 
though  they  had  been  unreal  figures  woven  on  some  fading  tapestry, 
stepped  forth  as  men,  instinct  with  human  life  and  noble  passion.  It 
seemed  as  though  for  the  first  time  they  spoke  and  breathed,  and  stood 
upon  their  feet. 


ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 


Mr.  Augustus  Hare,  in  a  paper  in  "  Macmillan's  Magazine,"  has 
given  some  delightful  remembrances  of  the  Dean's  early  days,  in  a 
home  which  was  almost  ideal  in  the  beauty  of  its  conditions  and  sur- 
roundings. Perhaps  the  beauty  and  sweetness  of  English  life  can  never 
be  seen  to  greater  advantage  than  in  a  country  parsonage  where  the 
circumstances  are  easy,  the  surroundings  lovely,  and  the  influences  emi- 
nently refined.  But  no  English  parsonage  could  ever 
have  furnished  a  more  delightful  home  than  that  in  felt; 

which  Arthur  Stanley  spent  his  earliest  years. 

A  father,  gifted,  liberal,  courageous,  simple- 


^tas^ 


[hapei 


hearted,  passing  through  the  world 

with  open   eyes,  and  with  an  open 

heart,  beloved  and  honored  alike  by 

the  rich  and  by  the  poor ;  a  mother 

with    a    character   and    an    intellect 

"delicate  as  porcelain  ;  "  brothers  and 

sisters  of  high  promise  and  distinct 

individuality,  natures  tender  and  gracious,  such  as  wore,  "when  they 

looked  without,  the  glow  of  sympathy,  and,  when  they  looked  within, 

the  bloom  of  modesty,"  —  such  was  the  circle  amid  which  the  bright 

childish  presence  of  the  future  Dean  played  like  sunlight. 

In  later  days  he  had  his  own  sorrows  to  endure ;  and  though,  on  the 
whole,  his  life  was  singularly  blessed  and  unusually  prosperous  and 
happy,  yet  when  life's  sorrows  and  disappointments  came  to  him,  as 
they  come  to  us  all,  he  must  have  found  in  the  memories  of  his  child- 


4  ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 

hood,  spent  in  such  a  home,  a  fountain  of  sweet  waters,  which  shed  its 
healing  and  refreshful  dews,  even  over  the  most  weary  paths  of  his 
earthly  pilgrimages. 

In  one  of  the  many  papers  which  were  written  about  Lord  Beacons- 
field  at  the  time  of  his  death,  it  was  mentioned,  as  a  curious  circum- 
stance, that  he  and  Cardinal  Newman,  when  they  were  very  little  boys, 
used  to  meet  and  play  together  in  the  gardens  of  Bloomsbury  Square. 
Dean  Stanley  used  sometimes  to  mention  his  first  meeting  with  the 
present  prime  minister  of  England.  Mr.  Gladstone  was  then  about 
fifteen  years  old,  and  Arthur  Stanley  was  not  ten.  They  met  at  the 
house  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  father,  and  he  introduced  the  boys  to  each 
other.  One  of  the  first  remarks  of  the  future  premier  to  the  future 
Dean  was,  "  Have  you  read  Gray's  poems  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  little  Stanley.  Whereupon  the  other  boy  said,  "  Then, 
you  should  read  them  at  once  :  "  and,  taking  down  the  volume  from  the 
shelf,  he  gave  it  to  him  ;  and  Stanley  took  it  home  with  him,  and  read 
it  through  for  the  first  time  with  great  delight. 

I  cannot  help  suspecting  that  such  a  conversation  between  two 
English  boys  —  even  between  two  such  boys  —  who  might  chance  to 
meet  each  other  for  the  first  time,  was  far  commoner  then  than  it 
would  be  now.  Athleticism  had  not  in  those  days  assumed  its  present 
gigantic  proportions,  nor  was  a  non-athletic  boy  despised  and  looked 
down  upon  as  he  now  sometimes  is  at  public  schools. 

The  Dean  used  to  look  back  on  his  training  at  Rugby  as  one  of  the 
greatest  blessings  of  his  life.  Although  "Arthur,"  in  "Tom  Brown's 
School-days,"  cannot  be  taken  as  an  exact  picture  of  what  he  was  as  a 
Rugby  boy,  yet  certainly  some  features  in  that  charming  character  were 
taken  from  the  Dean. 

He  greatly  enjoyed  Mr.  Hughes's  school-story  ;  and,  though  he 
used  to  say  that  his  want  of  skill  and  interest  in  games  cut  him  off 
from  that  lively  sympathy  with  it  which  he  otherwise  might  have  had, 
he  certainly  thought  that  "  Arthur  "  had  some  reference  to  himself  and 
his  own  school  experiences. 

But  in  him  the  thoughts  of  Rugby  were  concentrated  in  his  remin- 
iscences of  Dr.  Arnold,  for  whom  he  retained  a  deep  veneration  till  the 
day  of  his  death.  Arnold's  sermons  had  an  effect  upon  him  which  was 
little  short  of  marvellous.  When  he  went  to  Oxford,  and  heard  the 
famous  "John  Henry  Newman"  of  those  days,  he  was  greatly  struck 
and  fascinated  ;  "  but,"  he  added,  "  Newman's  sermons  have  faded  out 
of  my  memory,  whereas  Dr.  Arnold's  never  will. 


ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY,  5 

"At  Rugby,  Arnold  was  my  idol  and  my  oracle  in  one.  Afterwards 
he  was  not  exactly  my  oracle,  but  I  reverenced  him  wholly  and  entirely 
to  the  end.  I  have  never  felt  such  reverence  for  any  one  since.  The 
boys  in  general  —  with  the  exception  of  a  few  in  the  sixth  form  — 
saw  but  little  of  Arnold.  In  'Tom  Brown's  School-days,'  the  scene 
between  the  head-master  and  the  boys  who  were  late  after  '  Hare  and 
Hounds,'  gives  a  most  correct  impression  of  his  manner. 

"Arnold  never  was  an  object  of  tender  affection  to  his  pupils.  We 
regarded  him  with  awe  and  reverence,  not  wholly  unmingled  with  fear. 
J  never  got  over  this  fear,"  said  the  Dean,  "to  the  last.  But,  as  a  man, 
I  think  Arnold  has  never  been  surpassed.  His  death  was  a  terrible 
blow  to  me,  and  it  was  the  first  great  bereavement  which  I  experienced. 
As  soon  as  I  heard  of  his  death,  I  determined  to  make  the  offer  to 
write  his  life  ;  but,  until  I  began  it,  I  had  no  notion  how  many  inter- 
esting letters  of  his  had  been  preserved.  It  took  me  two  years  to 
write  it,  and  I  never  enjoyed  any  work  so  much." 

Before  I  leave  the  reminiscences  of  his  school-days,  I  will  quote  a 
few  lines  of  a  school  exercise  which  he  wrote  before  he  was  fifteen. 
He  was  in  the  fifth  form,  and  had  not  yet  come  under  Dr.  Arnold's 
care.  One  of  the  fifth-form  masters  used  occasionally  to  set  his 
boys  a  subject  for  verse-composition,  and  on  one  occasion  the  subject 
was  "Jacob's  Dream."  Young  Stanley's  exercises  were  always  the 
best.  We  shall  not  be  surprised  at  this  when  we  read  the  follow- 
ing lines  :  — 

"  Wearied  with  grief,  and  whelmed  in  burning  shame, 
To  Bethel's  vale  the  way-worn  Patriarch  came. 
There  sad  he  sat,  and  viewed  with  sickening  sight 
The  last  faint  glimmer  of  returning  light ; 
And  then,  as  Heaven  drew  on  her  nightly  vest, 
On  the  rough  rock  he  wept  himself  to  rest. 
Is  there  no  sacred  gleam,  no  heavenly  ray, 
To  light  the  wanderer  on  his  weary  way? 
Yes  !  when  all  earthly  parts  lay  wrapt  in  sleep, 
His  soul  sprang  forth  athwart  the  boundless  deep; 
Shrank  the  dark  curtain  of  the  starry  sky, 
Unfolding  worlds  of  life  and  light  on  high. 
And,  like  the  bow  that  from  the  tempest  springs, 
A  mystic  ladder  reared  its  countless  rings  ; 
And  forms,  whose  beauty  spoke  no  mortal  birth, 
Waved  their  bright  wings,  and  trod  the  meaner  earth, 
And  upwards  rose,  where,  throned  in  sapphire  light, 
Shone  forth  revealed  the  glorious  Infinite." 


6  ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 

This  specimen  of  the  exercise  will  probably  be  sufficient  to  show 
that  very  few  boys  have  been  able,  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  to  write 
English  verse  as  it  was  written  by  young  Arthur  Stanley  at  Rugby. 

I  do  not  know  whether  the  fact  that  his  attention  had  been  thus 
early  called  to  the  subject  of  Jacob  was  the  reason  why  he  recurred 
to  this  subject  so  incessantly  in  his  later  sermons.  It  is  certain  that 
he  did  so.  The  extract  which  I  have  given  above  is  taken  from  a 
sermon  on  "Jacob  and  Esau  ;"  and  after  a  sermon  on  the  same  sub- 
ject, preached  before  the  University  of  Oxford,  one  of  his  friends 
observed,  with  a  smile,  that  he  had  been  preaching  on  that  topic  all 
his  life. 

II. 

He  entered  Oxford  as  a  Balliol  scholar ;  and  the  Balliol  Scholar- 
ship in  those  days,  being  almost  the  only  open  scholarship  at  Oxford, 
was  even  more  the  blue  ribbon  of  undergraduate  distinction  than  it 
is  now.  To  his  actual  Oxford  days  he  did  not  often  revert,  nor  even 
very  frequently  to  the  days  when  he  was  a  young  fellow  and  tutor  of 
University  College,  —  a  college  which  was  all  the  dearer  to  his  imagi- 
nation because  it  is  one  of  the  oldest  of  them  all. 

Even  as  a  young  man  he  had  so  high  a  reputation,  that  no  less  a 
person  than  the  prime  minister,  Lord  Melbourne,  wrote  to  ask  his 
opinion  about  the  Hampden  excitement.  Stanley  said,  in  reply,  that 
if,  for  any  reason,  Dr.  Hampden  was  superseded,  Dr.  Arnold  would  be 
the  best  person  for  the  Regius  Professorship  of  Divinity ;  but  that,  if 
that  were  too  strong  a  measure,  the  best  candidate  would  be  Dr.  Jacob- 
son.  Dr.  Jacobson  afterwards  became  professor,  and  is  now  Bishop 
of  Chester. 

When  the  Dean  was  a  young  man  at  Oxford,  he  was  one  day  read- 
ing the  passage  in  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  where  Christian,  at  Castle 
Beautiful,  is  shown  the  relics  and  pedigrees  of  the  saints.  He  was 
very  much  struck  with  the  passage ;  and  he  determined,  if  he  ever 
became  Professor  of  Ecclesiastical  History,  he  would  begin  his  first 
course  of  lectures  by  quoting  it.  Years  afterwards,  he  did  become 
Professor  of  Ecclesiastical  History  ;  and  it  will  be  seen,  by  referring 
to  the  first  page  of  his  published  lectures,  that  he  carried  out  the 
intention  which  he  had  thus  early  formed. 

He  preached  not  unfrequently  in  the  chapel  of  his  college,  and  it 
need  not  be  said  that  his  preaching  always  excited  the  deepest  atten- 


ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY.  7 

tion  and  interest.  w\  said  "always."  He  used,  however,  to  tell  an  anec- 
dote about  one  sermon,  which,  at  the  time,  appeared  to  him  to  be 
listened  to  with  less  respect  than  usual. 

He  observed  a  tendency  to  laugh,  and  was  totally  unable  to  account 
for  the  fact  that  there  seemed  to  be  less  of  reverence  and  eagerness 
than  was  usually  manifested.  He  discovered  the  cause  afterwards. 
Always  somewhat  careless  about  matters  of  dress  and  personal  appear- 
ance, he  had  put  on  his  college-cap  with  his  gloves  inside  of  it.  When 
he  took  off  his  cap,  the  gloves  remained  on  the  top  of  his  head,  and 
retained  their  somewhat  precarious  hold  during  the  whole  sermon. 
Indeed,  he  walked  back  to  his  stall  with  the  gloves  still  on  his  head. 
The  little  accident  had  been  too  much  for  the  levity  of  young  auditors. 
All  through  the  sermon,  there  had  been  a  certain  amount  of  excitement 
as  to  the  question  whether  the  gloves  would  stop  on,  or  drop  off  ;  and, 
by  way  of  excuse  for  the  university  undergraduates,  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  any  audience  would  not  have  been  a  little  distracted  by  so 
unusual  a  phenomenon. 

Whenever  he  preached  before  the  university,  St.  Mary's  Church 
was  always  thronged  to  hear  him.  It  was  there  that  he  delivered  the 
discourses  which  were  afterwards  collected  into  the  beautiful  little  vol- 
ume called  "Sermons  on  the  Apostolical  Age."  In  these  he  treats  of 
the  life  and  distinctive  teaching  of  the  chief  apostles.  The  facts  on 
which  he  touches,  and  his  method  of  handling  them,  are  now  far  more 
familiar  than  they  were  when  those  sermons  were  written.  At  that 
time  they  bore  the  mark  of  distinct  originality.  Indeed,  it  may  be 
said,  that,  to  many  of  his  readers,  the  Dean  now  appears  to  have  been 
less  original  than  he  really  was,  from  the  rapidity  with  which  his  views 
were  disseminated.  The  brilliancy  and  universality  of  his  success 
tended  to  obliterate  the  fact  that  he  had  originated  the  style  of  treat- 
ment which  was  adopted  by  so  many  successors. 

A  young  undergraduate,  who  had  been  a  pupil  of  mine  at  Harrow, 
once  told  me  that  he  was  so  powerfully  moved  by  a  sermon  of  the 
Dean's  in  the  pulpit  of  St.  Mary's  at  Oxford,  on  the  dignity  of  intellect- 
ual labor,  that  he  "felt  inclined  to  stand  up  and  scream."  He  was  not 
at  all  a  youth  of  emotional  character,  and  he  could  perhaps  have  chosen 
no  more  expressive  tribute  to  the  power  of  the  Dean's  appeals  than  the 
homely  phrase  in  which  he  described  his  impression. 

In  his  "Sermons  preached  in  the  East,"  and  in  his  "Sinai  and 
Palestine,"  which  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  his  books,  the  Dean 
recorded  some  of  the  impressions  of  his  travels.     Just  as  in  his  lee- 


8  ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 

tures  on  the  Jewish  Church,  he  made  the  men  and  women  of  sacred 
story  as  well  known  to  us  as  though  we  had  met  them  in  actual  life, 
so,  in  his  "  Sinai  and  Palestine,"  he  made  us  as  familiar  with  the  physi- 
cal geography  and  general  features  of  the  Desert  and  the  Holy  Land 
as  we  are  with  those  of  our  own  country. 

He  had,  to  an  unrivalled  degree,  the  power  of  connecting  scenes 
with  the  events  and  personages  of  history.  This  habit  of  his  mind 
gave  constant  interest  to  his  life.  He  was  always  on  the  lookout  for 
facts  which  enabled  him  to  recall  the  chief  incidents  in  the  lives  of 
celebrated  men.  I  once  drove  him  to  Hampstead  and  Highgate  ;  and 
a  mere  afternoon  drive,  which  might  otherwise  have  been  entirely 
commonplace  and  unprofitable,  became  pleasant  and  instructive,  be- 
cause he  made  it  an  opportunity  for  visiting  the  house  and  grave  of  the 
poet  Coleridge,  and  the  spots  which  tradition  has  identified  with  the 
well-known  story  of  Sir  Richard  Whittington.  Conversation  with  him 
could  never  become  uninteresting  when  the  sources  of  it  were  fed  by 
so  many  delightful  and  profitable  topics. 

Sometimes,  as  may  be  imagined,  his  eagerness  for  resemblances  and 
identifications  led  him  into  mistakes.  When  I  came  to  Westminster, 
he  always  begged  me  to  preserve  a  flat  gravestone  in  St.  Margaret's 
churchyard,  on  which  was  inscribed  the  name  of  "Mr.  John  Gilpin." 
He  had  himself,  I  believe,  had  the  inscription — or  rather  the  name, 
for  the  inscription  had  long  been  worn  out  by  the  many  feet  which 
passed  over  it  —  cut  deeper  on  the  gravestone ;  because  he  supposed 
that  "the  poor  inhabitant  below"  had  been  the  John  Gilpin  whose  ride 
to  Edmonton  has  been  immortalized  by  Cowper. 

Cowper  was  a  Westminster  boy :  and  the  Dean  supposed  that  he 
might  have  heard  of  John  Gilpin,  and  seen  his  name  on  this  stone  ;  for 
it  is  known  that  Cowper  received  his  first  deep  religious  impression  by 
stumbling  over  a  skull  rolled  by  the  sexton  out  of  a  grave  which  he  was 
digging  in  this  churchyard.  I  found,  however,  on  inquiry,  from  some 
of  the  oldest  inhabitants,  that  the  John  Gilpin  there  interred  could  not 
have  the  remotest  connection  with  Cowper  or  his  famous  ballad.  He 
appears,  if  the  information  given  me  was  correct,  to  have  been  a  publi- 
can who  had  died  in  Westminster  little  more  than  sixty  years  ago. 

In  telling  of  his  travels  in  the  East  as  one  of  those  who  accom- 
panied the  Prince  of  Wales  during  his  Eastern  tour,  the  Dean  used  to 
laugh  at  his  equestrian  adventures.  Like  his  dear  friend,  Dr.  Cotton, 
late  Bishop  of  Calcutta,  the  Dean  was  totally  unable  to  ride  ;  and,  when 
the  party  reached  Egypt,  his  chief   troubles  arose  from   this  circum- 


ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY.  g 

stance.  Whenever  they  arrived  at  a  landing-stage  in  their  voyage  up 
the  Nile,  they  found  splendid  horses  awaiting  them,  which  the  rest  of 
his  companions  mounted  with  much  satisfaction.  But  the  Dean  plain- 
tively declared,  that,  when  he  got  on  horseback,  the  horse  used  to  be  at 
once  aware  of  his  rider's  powerlessness,  and  always  started  off  at  full 
speed  across  the  sands,  to  the  great  amusement  of  everybody  else. 

On  one  occasion,  however,  the  horse  galloped  right  towards  the 
portals  of  the  Temple  at  Edfou ;  and  Mr.  Stanley,  as  he  then  was,  was 
only  saved  from  great  danger  by  an  Arab,  who,  at  considerable  risk  to 
his  own  life,  flung  his  arms  around  the  horse's  neck.  After  this  acci- 
dent, horses  used  to  be  provided  for  the  rest  of  the  party,  and  a  white 
donkey  for  him  ;  and  then  he  was  quite  happy.  "And,"  he  added,  "if 
only  I  had  a  white  donkey  of  the  same  kind  in  London,  I  think  that  I 
would  ride  him  in  Rotten  Row  !  " 

During  this  tour  he  left  a  deep  impression,  not  only  by  the  invari- 
able geniality  and  brightness  of  his  intercourse,  but  also  by  the  simple 
kindness  which  won  the  hearts  of  all  the  servants  and  humbler  depend- 
ants of  the  party.  To  this  he  never,  of  course,  alluded  ;  but  he  was 
fond  of  telling  one  anecdote.  On  one  occasion  he  was  near  the  sources 
of  the  Jordan,  and  a  little  separated  from  the  rest  of  the  party,  when 
he  saw  a  group  of  Arabs  —  apparently  a  chief  with  his  attendants  — 
riding  towards  him.  They  were  magnificently  mounted,  as  the  Arabs 
usually  are  ;  and  their  long  white  bernouses  flowed  over  their  robes  and 
arms.  Suddenly  the  chief  rode  out  in  advance  of  the  rest,  and  said 
to  him,  in  perfect  English,  "Arthur  Stanley,  I  presume  ?  I  am  very 
glad  to  see  you." 

His  astonishment  at  this  remarkably  unexpected  salutation  was 
lessened  when  it  turned  out  that  the  supposed  Arab  chief  was  Mr. 
Gifford  Palgrave,  the  celebrated  traveller,  whose  well-known  volume  of 
travels  has  much  of  the  vigor  and  liveliness  of  Herodotus  himself. 

When  the  Dean  was  writing  his  "  Sinai  and  Palestine,"  he  not  only 
trusted  to  his  own  observations,  but  read  every  book  from  which  he 
hoped  to  derive  assistance.  It  is  interesting  to  know,  that  among  these 
books  was  a  short  treatise  written  by  Napoleon  the  First,  as  a  military 
work,  on  the  Geography  of  Sinai.  The  Dean  used  to  say  that  it  was 
so  much  better  —  so  much  clearer,  more  lucid,  and  more  practical- — 
than  any  thing  which  he  had  read  before,  that  he  used  it  almost  as  a 
sort  of  basis,  or  outline,  of  his  own  work. 

He  used  to  tell  a  very  singular  coincidence  about  the  first  Napoleon. 
Once,  when  he  was  abroad,  he  had  been  shown  a  copy-book  written  by 


IO  ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 

the  future  emperor  when  he  was  a  child.  The  copy-book,  which  was 
only  half  finished,  contained,  among  other  things,  some  geographical 
notes ;  and  the  last  words  which  the  boy  had  written  in  it  contained  a 
sort  of  unconscious  prophecy.  As  though  chance  had  been  indulging 
itself  by  making  the  little  boy  write  an  ironical  and  almost  sardonic 
reference  to  his  own  ultimate  destiny,  the  unfinished  copy-book  had 
broken  off  at  the  words,  — 

"  Saintc  Htflhie petite  He." 


III. 

WESTMINSTER   ABBEY. 

My  reminiscences  of  Dr.  Stanley  would  be  more  than  imperfect  if 
I  did  not  add  something  respecting  his  connection  with  Westminster 
Abbey.  Rich  and  fruitful  as  was  all  his  life,  more  even  than  the  lives 
of  thousands  whom  the  world  bears  in  grateful  remembrance,  the  six- 
teen years  of  his  work  as  Dean  of  Westminster  are  those  which  will  be 
specially  prominent  in  the  recollections  of  Englishmen  and  Americans. 

It  is  not  from  any  accidental  desire  to  pay  a  compliment  to  Ameri- 
cans that  I  here  mention  them.  Westminster  Abbey  is  one  of  the 
favorite  shrines  of  their  pilgrimage.  It  is,  I  suppose,  the  first  place 
which  most  Americans  visit  when  they  come  to  London.  There  is  no 
spot  in  the  world  which  more  forcibly  brings  home  to  their  minds  the 
conviction  that  they  and  we  form  one  great  nation. 

In  my  own  church  of  St.  Margaret's,  which  stands  close  beside  the 
abbey,  the  almost  unsolicited  munificence  of  American  citizens  has 
placed  a  magnificent  stained-glass  window  to  the  memory  of  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh,  whom  Dean  Stanley  used  to  call  "  the  Father  of  the  United 
States,"  and  whose  headless  body  lies  buried  under  the  chancel-floor. 
On  this  window  is  the  following  quatrain  from  the  pen  of  the  American 
minister,  Mr.  J.  Russell  Lowell  :  — 

"  The  New  World's  sons,  from  England's  breast  we  drew 
Such  milk  as  bids  remember  whence  we  came  : 
Proud  of  her  past  from  which  our  present  grew, 
This  window  we  inscribe  with  Raleigh's  name." 

The  feeling  expressed  in  these  four  stately  lines  is  never  stronger 
in  the  heart  of  an  American  than  when  he  wanders  thoughtfully  along 
the  venerable  aisles  of  the  great  abbey,  — 


ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY.  1 1 

"  Where  bubbles  burst,  and  folly's  dancing  foam 
Melts,  if  we  cross  the  threshold." 

The  late  Dean,  always  catholic,  always  cosmopolitan  in  his  sympa- 
thies, habitually  regarded  his  cathedral  as  one  of  the  strongest  links  in 
the  chain  of  golden  associations  which  unites  the  two  nations  in  peace 
and  amity,  and  draws  them  together  by  the  glorious  memories  of  their 
common  ancestry. 

Hence  the  Dean,  who  was  accessible  to  all,  was  specially  accessible 
to  American  visitors.  They  were  always  welcomed  with  simple  but 
most  delightful  hospitality,  which  was  abundantly  repaid  to  him  in  the 
memorable  visit  which  he  paid  to  America  so  shortly  before  his  death. 
This  visit  may  be  ranked  among  the  happiest  incidents  of  his  saddened 
later  years.  He  was  refreshed  by  new  scenes,  and  the  enjoyment  of 
those  scenes  was  unalloyed  by  the  associations  of  a  past  over  which 
Death  brooded  with  the  shadow  of  his  darkening  wings. 

Amid  the  strife  of  tongues  to  which  he  was  subjected  in  England, 
in  consequence  of  the  narrow  bitterness  of  ecclesiastical  parties,  he 
was  delighted  with  the  warmth  of  a  welcome  given  to  him  with  unani- 
mous accord  in  America  by  all  classes  and  all  schools  of  thought.  But 
the  enthusiasm  of  that  welcome  was  chiefly  due  to  the  brilliant  and 
noble  manner  in  which  he  had  discharged  his  duties  as  Dean  of  West- 
minster, and  had  thus  formed  the  acquaintance  of  many  leading  Ameri- 
cans. For  to  know  Dean  Stanley  was  to  love  him.  Acquaintance  with 
him  soon  ripened  into  friendship. 

Fond  as  he  was  of  historic  associations,  it  is  a  curious  fact,  that, 
when  he  was  appointed  Dean  of  Westminster,  he  knew  scarcely  any 
thing  of  the  great  abbey.  Almost  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  send 
for  the  late  Sir  Gilbert  Scott,  who  was  architect  of  the  abbey,  and  go 
with  him  over  the  entire  building,  from  floor  to  roof,  and  from  the  roof 
to  the  topmost  towers.  I  can  well  imagine  the  intense  and  ever-grow- 
ing interest  which  he  must  have  felt  in  that  first  tour  when  every  thing 
was  new  to  him.  I  can  do  so  all  the  more  because,  when  I  was  ap- 
pointed canon,  I  made  the  same  peregrination  with  the  celebrated 
architect. 

Sir  Gilbert  knew  the  abbey  well,  and  his  "  Gleanings  "  are  full  of 
valuable  facts.  He  now  lies  buried  beneath  the  pavement  of  the  nave, 
and  the  services  which  he  rendered  to  the  building  give  additional  fit- 
ness to  the  choice  of  his  final  resting-place.  But  his  knowledge  of 
Westminster  was  chiefly  architectural.  The  Dean's  knowledge  of  it 
was  historical,  and,  indeed,  universal. 


12  ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 

Probably  no  clean  who  ever  existed  has  clone  more  for  the  fame 
and  popularity  of  the  cathedral  over  which  he  has  presided  than  Dean 
Stanley  did  for  Westminster.  His  personal  reputation,  his  immense 
popularity,  his  winning  and  gracious  desire  to  be  kind  and  courteous 
to  all,  his  sermons,  —  often  so  pathetic,  often  so  eloquent,  invariably 
so  full  of  interest,  —  all  tended  to  gather  the  immense  crowds  who 
thronged  the  services,  and  wandered  about  the  building  all  day  long. 

The  work  which  he  did  in  this  way  was  part  of  the  high  conception 
which  he  had  formed  of  the  duties  of  his  position,  and  of  the  proper 
functions  of  an  English  minister.  He  wished  it  to  be  a  place  where 
men  of  all  classes  and  conditions  of  life  might  feel  themselves  at  home, 
and  in  which  the  members  of  every  religious  party  might  claim  a  com- 
mon interest.  The  pulpit  of  the  abbey  was  freely  opened  to  Church- 
men of  every  school  of  thought,  whether  they  called  themselves  High, 
or  Low,  or  Broad. 

In  the  abbey,  and  there  alone,  —  owing  to  the  immunity  from  epis- 
copal jurisdiction,  and  the  almost  autocratic  powers  intrusted  to  its 
dean,  —  vast  congregations  have  been  addressed  by  Presbyterians,  like 
Principal  Tulloch  and  Principal  Caird ;  by  Nonconformists,  like  Dr. 
Stoughton  ;  and  even  by  a  layman,  like  Professor  Max  Miiller. 

When  the  Dean  first  realized  that  he  was  dying,  and  I  stood  by  his 
bedside,  taking  down  his  last  articulate  words  and  messages,  the  mes- 
sage about  which  he  took  the  most  anxiously  scrupulous  care  was  one 
which  I  here  print  for  the  first  time  exactly  as  it  was  delivered.  I 
mentioned  it  to  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  who  quoted  it  from 
memory  at  a  meeting  of  the  Upper  House  of  Convocation,  and  it  was 
copied  by  many  newspapers  in  the  form  in  which  it  was  given  by  his 
Grace :  but  the  words  which  the  Dean  actually  spoke,  now  lie  before 
me  as  I  took  them  down  in  pencil  with  great  difficulty  from  the  accents 
of  a  voice  which  was  rapidly  becoming  unintelligible  ;  and  they  were 
these  :  — 

"  In  spite  of  almost  every  incompetence,  I  yet  humbly  trust  that  I 
have  sustained  before  the  mind  of  the  nation  the  extraordinary  value 
of  the  abbey  as  a  religious,  liberal,  and  national  institution." 

But,  among  the  many  unequalled  services  which  he  rendered  to 
Westminster,  his  "  Memorials  of  Westminster  Abbey  "  must  be  men- 
tioned among  the  chief.  Up  to  the  time  when  it  was  written,  the  tombs 
and  the  history  of  the  abbey  were  comparatively  little  known,  even  by 
scholars  so  accomplished  as  the  late  Dean  Milman,  who  for  many  years 
was  one  of  the  canons.     The  thousands  who  visited  it  were  compelled, 


ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY.  1 3 

by  lack  of  knowledge,  to  look  with  a  blank  and  unintelligent  eye  on 
many  a  monument  which  is  now  rife  with  interest. 

The  Dean  left  no  source  of  information  unsearched.  He  was  greatly 
assisted  by  the  magnificent  publication  of  the  abbey  registers,  with 
genealogical  and  other  notes  by  the  American  antiquary,  Colonel  Ches- 
ter. That  distinguished  man  of  letters  died  some  months  ago  ;  and, 
in  memory  of  his  disinterested  researches,  the  present  dean  and  chapter 
are  about  to  erect  a  tablet  in  his  honor  in  the  nave.  But  I  think  that 
the  extent,  variety,  and  minuteness  of  literary  and  historical  research 
which  the  Dean  has  compressed  into  his  "  Memorials  "  have  never  been 
duly  estimated. 

To  write  this  book,  he  was  obliged  to  expend  a  vast  amount  of  time 
in  the  study  of  memoirs,  poems,  and  journals  belonging  to  every  period 
of  English  history.  Nor  did  he  neglect  living  tradition.  He  derived 
some  particulars  about  coronations  and  funerals  from  Mr..  Turle,  who 
was  for  more  than  half  a  century  an  organist  of  the  abbey,  and  with 
whom  it  is  to  be  feared  that  many  interesting  reminiscences  have  passed 
away.1  But  the  stores  of  information  which  the  Dean  accumulated 
would  have  been  useless  in  many  hands. 

It  required  his  almost  magical  lightness  of  touch,  his  skill  in 
arrangement,  and  felicity  of  expression,  to  infuse  vivacity  and  interest 
into  materials  which  would  otherwise  have  been  cumbrous  and  lifeless. 
His  task  was  achieved  with  such  success,  that  no  book  has  ever  been 
written,  or  can  ever  be  written,  upon  the  abbey  which  brings  home  to 
the  reader  in  an  equal  degree  its  unique  and  manifold  claims  to  be 
cherished  by  the  nation  as  an  imperishable  possession. 

The  Dean  never  seemed  to  tire  of  the  abbey.  Few  days  passed 
on  which  he  did  not  enter  it.  He  made  a  point  of  wandering  about 
it  on  the  bank-holidays,  when  it  is  most  densely  thronged  ;  and  he 
never  missed  an  opportunity  of  joining  this  or  that  group  of  holiday 
sight-seers,  and  saying  something  to  awaken  their  interest  in  the  par- 
ticular monument  at  which  they  happened  to  be  looking. 

One  day  he  saw  an  intelligent  little  boy  in  the  abbey,  and  asked 
him  his  name.  The  boy  mentioned  his  name,  and  added  that  his  father 
was  a  Wesleyan  minister. 

"  Oh  !  then,"  said  the  Dean,  "  you  will  very  much  like  to  see  the 
monument  to  John  and  Charles  Wesley." 

He  took  the  lad  to  the  monument,  and  was  so  much  pleased  by  his 


1  Mr.  Turle  died  in  July,  1882. 


H  ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 

quickness  and  knowledge,  that  he  wrote  to  his  parents,  and  gave  him 
the  opportunity  for  a  better  education  than  would  otherwise  have  been 
open  to  him.  He  was  always  particularly  desirous  to  deepen  the  influ- 
ence of  the  abbey  over  the  minds  of  the  poor  and  of  the  young. 

As  regards  the  young,  he  was  fond  of  telling  the  story  how  one 
day  a  poor  bookseller's  boy,  weary  with  the  heavy  load  of  books  which 
he  was  carrying,  stopped  to  rest  in  the  abbey,  and,  sitting  down,  began 
to  cry  at  the  thought  that  he  should  probably  spend  all  his  life  in  carry- 
ing books  ;  but  suddenly,  as  he  lifted  his  eyes,  he  saw  the  memorials 
of  the  illustrious  dead  all  around  him,  and,  taking  heart  of  grace,  deter- 
mined that  he,  too,  would  do  some  useful  work  in  life.  That  boy  was 
the  great  and  learned  missionary,  William  Marshman,  the  father-in-law 
of  Sir  Henry  Havelock. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  occasions  on  which  I  visited  the  abbey 
with  the  Dean,  was  when  we  took  steps  to  re-inter  the  remains  of 
Queen  Katharine  of  Valois,  wife  of  Henry  V. 

The  fortunes  of  this  queen  were  strange  in  death  as  well  as  in  life. 
The  daughter  of  Charles  VI.  of  France,  wife  of  our  Henry  V.,  mother 
of  Henry  VI.,  grandmother  of  Henry  VII.,  a  link  between  the  royal 
houses  of  France  and  England,  she  was  regarded  as  queen  of  both 
countries.  She  had  been  received  on  her  first  visit  to  England  "  as  an 
angel  of  God,"  and,  in  France,  had  sat  with  her  husband  at  a  great 
banquet  in  Paris,  among  a  crowd  of  dukes,  princes,  and  barons,  gor- 
geously apparelled,  and  crowned  with  a  precious  diadem. 

After  her  husband's  death,  she  and  her  son,  Henry  VI.,  erected  to 
him  the  splendid  chantry  in  the  Confessor's  Chapel,  which  is  built  in 
the  shape  of  the  first  letter  of  his  name.  But,  after  Henry's  death, 
she  made  a  mesalliance  with  Owen  Tudor,  who  —  whatever  may  have 
been  his  supposed  extraction  from  ancient  British  kings  —  held  no 
higher  position  than  that  of  a  soldier  of  the  guard. 

In  consequence  of  this,  she  fell  into  contempt  and  oblivion  ;  and, 
after  her  death,  her  remains  were  so  badly  coffined,  that  her  body  was 
actually  visible  more  than  two  centuries  afterwards,  when,  in  the  reign 
of  Charles  II.,  Pepys,  in  his  diary,  records  that  he  went  into  the  abbey 
on  his  birthday,  and  "kissed  a  queen."  This  scandalous  neglect  con- 
tinued until  more  than  a  century  ago,  when  the  body  was  stowed  away 
in  the  vault  of  Sir  George  Villiers,  father  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham, 
who  was  the  favorite  of  James  I.  and  Charles  I. 

When  the  Villiers  vault  was  opened,  after  the  funeral  of  one  of  the 
Percies,  in  the  vault  which  adjoins  it,  we  thought  that  it  wculd  be  a 


ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 


15 


good  opportunity  to  remove  the  body  of  the  neglected  queen  —  once 
so  beautiful  and  so  renowned  —  to  a  more  fitting  burial-place.  It  was 
not  right  that  she  should  be  indebted,  so  to  speak,  to  the  chance 
vacancy  in  the  grave  of  the  Buckinghamshire  knight. 

When  the  coffin  was  lifted  out  of  the  vault  in  the  Chapel  of  St. 
Nicholas,  it  tumbled  to  pieces  before  our  eyes ;  and  there  lay  the  mor- 


tal remains  of  the  wife  of  our  hero-king,  —  the  Kate  of  Shakspeare's 
magnificent  tragedy,  and  the  ancestress  of  the  mighty  Tudors. 

The  remains  were  nearly  perfect,  but  were  little  more  than  a  skel- 
eton, except  that  the  muscles  of  the  legs  and  feet  still  remained.  The 
skull,  small  and  exquisitely  shaped,  lay  on  something  which  had  once 
been  a  silken  cushion.  Large  pieces  of  the  cerecloth  still  remained, 
though  they  crumbled  to  dust  at  the  least  touch. 


16  ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 

No  one  was  present  when  this  occurred,  except  the  Dean,  the  clerk 
of  the  works,  and  myself.  We  stood  in  silence,  and  in  deep  and  rev- 
erent thought,  beside  the  mortal  relics  of  the  lovely  princess  who  had 
been  the  ancestress  of  so  many  of  our  kings,  and  who,  after  so  much 
glory  and  so  many  sorrows,  had  passed  away  nearly  four  and  a  half 
centuries  ago.  Neither  the  Dean  nor  I  was  tempted  by  the  passion 
for  abstracting  memorials  from  the  resting-places  of  the  dead.  Not 
one  bone,  nor  one  shred  of  silk,  was  disturbed,  except  (if  I  remember 
rightly)  a  very  small  piece  of  the  white  cerecloth,  which  was  sent  to 
her  Majesty  the  Queen. 

A  strong  oaken  coffin  was  made  with  all  speed,  and  the  body  was 
then  buried  in  the  chantry  Queen  Katharine  built.  Here  it  rests, 
immediately  over  the  tomb  of  her  husband.  The  top  of  the  tomb  was 
formed  of  what  had  once  been  intended  for  an  altar-stall  in  the  chan- 
try-chapel ;  and  the  translation  of  the  very  simple  Latin  inscription, 
which  we  engraved  upon  it,  is  to  the  following  effect :  — 

"  Here  rests  at  length,  after  so  many  years  and  so  many  vicissitudes, 
the  body  of  Katherine  of  Valois,  daughter  of  Charles  VI.  of  France, 
wife  of  Henry  V.,  mother  of  Henry  VI.,  grandmother  of  Henry  VII." 

It  happened  to  the  Dean,  for  various  necessary  reasons,  to  be 
obliged  to  open  several  of  the  royal  vaults,  always,  of  course,  for  ade- 
quate causes,  and  with  royal  permission.  Thus,  it  was  desirable  to  open 
the  tomb  of  Richard  II.  for  indispensable  repairs.  The  common  story 
about  his  death  relates  that  his  skull  was  cleft  from  behind  by  a  blow 
from  the  battle-axe  of  Sir  Piers  Exton  in  the  dungeon  of  Pontefract 
Castle. 

It  was  seen,  however,  that  nothing  of  the  kind  had  happened  to  the 
body  which  lies  there  interred  ;  and  there  are  some  doubts  whether 
Henry  IV.  really  brought  the  corpse  of  Richard  II.  to  London  from 
Pontefract,  and  whether  the  body  which  he  exposed  to  view  was  not 
rather  that  of  Richard's  chaplain,  Maudsley,  who  is  known  to  have 
closely  resembled  him.  The  historic  doubt  on  this  subject  will  never 
be  solved.  The  mode  in  which  the  hapless  monarch  met  his  death  is 
a  secret  of  the  prison-house  forever. 

On  another  occasion  it  became  necessary  to  open  several  of  the 
royal  vaults,  to  see  whether  it  was  true  that  the  body  of  James  I.  had 
been  removed  from  the  abbey  by  the  Puritans.  If  this  had  proved  to 
be  the  case,  there  would  have  been  some  small  shadow  of  an  excuse 
for  the  base  act  of  the  Parliament  of  Charles  II.  in  turning  out  of  the 
abbey  the  bodies  of  Cromwell  and  his  adherents. 


ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY.  1 7 

It  was  most  interesting  to  hear  the  Dean  describe  the  chaotic  ful- 
ness of  the  vault  of  the  Stuarts,  which  contains  the  coffins  of  Prince 
Henry  ;  Elizabeth,  Queen  of  Bohemia  ;  Mary  of  Orange  ;  Mary  Queen 
of  Scots  ;  ten  children  of  James  II.  ;  eighteen  children  of  Queen  Anne ; 
Prince  Rupert  ;  Prince  George  of  Denmark ;  and  many  others.  This 
crowded  Stuart  vault  formed  a  great  contrast  to  the  majestic  quietude 
of  the  Tudor  vault,  in  which  only  Queen  Elizabeth  and  Queen  Mary 
Tudor  lie  side  by  side. 

The  body  of  King  James  was  at  last  found,  very  unexpectedly,  in 
the  vault  of  Henry  VII.  and  Elizabeth  of  York  ;  and,  as  though  one 
of  the  workmen  employed  in  the  interment  had  wished  to  show  his 
scorn  for  the  author  of  the  "  counterblast  against  tobacco,"  nothing 
was  to  be  seen  beside  the  coffin  except  the  fragments  of  an  old  tobacco- 
pipe.  But  in  none  of  these  searches  was  the  smallest  relic  or  fragment 
ever  removed,  although  it  is  believed  that  some  tombs  had  not  fared 
so  well  at  the  hands  of  earlier  deans. 

It  often  fell  to  the  Dean's  lot  to  show  great  potentates  over 
the  abbey.  "  Of  all  the  foreign  kings  and  queens,"  he  used  to 
say,  "whom  I  have  ever  shown  over  the  abbey,  who  do  you  think 
took  by  far  the  most  intelligent  interest  in  it,  and  knew  most  about 
all  its  details  ? "  Few  persons  would  have  guessed  that  it  was 
Queen  Emma  of  the  Sandwich  Islands,  who  quite  delighted  the 
Dean  by  her  vivid  interest  in  every  tomb,  and  every  detail  of  the 
structure. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  used  to  relate  the  stern  determination  with 
which  the  late  unfortunate  Czar  —  the  murdered  Alexander  III.  of  Rus- 
sia—  went  through  the  building.  He  looked  quite  infinitely  "bored." 
Not  one  remark  which  he  made  showed  the  smallest  enthusiasm  about 
any  thing  which  he  saw  ;  but  he  had  come  to  visit  the  abbey,  and  he 
was  determined,  in  soldier-fashion,  to  go  through  the  duty  without 
flinching.  For  three  hours  and  more  he  wearily  accompanied  the  Dean 
from  the  floor  to  the  triforium,  and  did  the  business  with  much  of  the 
proverbial  melancholy  with  which  Voltaire  said  that  the  Englishman 
amuses  himself. 

On  another  occasion  (though  I  forget  whether  this  was  in  the 
Dean's  time),  a  former  Queen  of  the  Netherlands,  being  present  at 
one  of  the  services,  had  been  shown  into  the  stall  of  the  subdean. 
One  of  the  vergers,  unaware  of  this,  came  to  her,  and  told  her  that 
she  must  not  sit  there.  "Oh!  but,"  exclaimed  the  lady,  "I  am  the 
Queen  of  the  Netherlands  !  " 


1 8  ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 

"  You  may  be  the  Queen  of  the  Netherlands,"  said  the  unabashed 
verger,  "  but  you  are  not  the  Subdean  of  Westminster  ;  and  there  you 
cannot  sit." 

IV. 

Let  us  walk  over  the  abbey  as  it  is  to-day.  I  fear,  that,  on  entering 
the  abbey,  you  will  at  first  be  greatly  disappointed.  The  grimy,  dingy 
look  of  the  place  will  vex  you,  particularly  if  you  choose  for  your 
visit  a  dull  day.  I  grieve  to  say  that  the  dinginess  is  inevitable.  The 
abbey  rears  its  towers  into  an  atmosphere  thick  with  the  smoke  of 
innumerable  chimneys,  and  laden  with  acids  which  eat  away,  with 
increasing  rapidity,  the  surface  of  its  stones. 

And  yet,  as  you  enter  the  cathedral  which  enshrines  memorials  of 
nine  centuries  of  English  history, — as  you  pass  under  the  roof  which 
covers  more  immortal  dust  than  any  other  in  the  whole  world, — you 
can  hardly  fail  to  feel  some  sense  of  awe.  And,  before  you  begin  to 
study  the  cathedral  in  detail,  I  should  advise  you  to  wander  through 
the  length  and  breadth  of  it  without  paying  any  attention  to  minor 
points,  but  with  the  single  object  of  recognizing  its  exquisite  beauty 
and  magnificence. 

You  will  best  understand  its  magnificence  as  a  place  of  worship  if 
you  visit  it  on  any  Sunday  afternoon,  and  see  the  choir  and  transepts 
crowded  from  end  to  end  by  perhaps  three  thousand  people,  among 
whom  you  will  observe  hundreds  of  young  men,  contented  to  stand 
through  the  whole  of  a  long  service,  and  to  listen,  with  no  sign  of 
weariness,  to  a  sermon  which  perhaps  occupies  an  hour  in  the  delivery. 

Here  the  Puritan  divines  thundered  against  the  errors  of  Rome  : 
here  the  Romish  preachers  anathematized  the  apostasies  of  Luther. 
These  walls  have  heard  the  voice  of  Cranmer  as  he  preached  before 
the  boy-king  on  whom  he  rested  the  hopes  of  the  Reformation  ;  and 
the  voice  of  Feckenham,  as  he  preached  before  Philip  of  Spain  and 
Mary  Tudor.  They  have  heard  South  shooting  the  envenomed  arrows 
of  his  wit  against  the  Independents,  and  Baxter  pleading  the  cause  of 
toleration.  They  have  heard  Bishop  Bonner  chanting  the  mass  in  his 
mitre,  and  Stephen  Marshall  preaching  at  the  funeral  of  Pym.  Here 
Romish  bishop  and  Protestant  dean,  who  cursed  each  other  when  liv- 
ing, lie  side  by  side  in  death  ;  and  Queen  Elizabeth  who  burned  Pa- 
pists, and  Queen  Mary  who  burned  Protestants,  share  one  quiet  grave, 
as  they  once  bore  the  same  uneasy  crown. 


ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY.  19 

Here,  too,  you  may  see  at  a  glance  the  unity  of  our  national  history. 
I  use  the  expression  our  national  history  designedly.  The  abbey  will 
remind  us,  as  no  other  place  could  remind  us,  that  the  history  of  Eng- 
land is  no  less  the  history  of  America,  and  the  history  of  America  the 
history  of  England.  All  that  was  bitter  in  the  memories  of  the  Amer- 
ican War  of  Independence  has  long  been  buried  in  the  oblivion  of  our 
common  amity. 

The  actual  traces  which  have  been  left  by  that  struggle  upon  the 
abbey-walls  are  few.  Gen.  Burgoyne,  "whose  surrender  at  Saratoga 
lost  America  to  England,"  lies  buried,  not  in  the  abbey,  but  in  the 
north  cloister,  without  a  monument.  A  small  tablet  in  the  southern 
aisle  records  the  shipwreck  and  death  of  William  Wragg,  who,  as  his 
epitaph  tells  us,  alone  remained  faithful  to  his  country,  and  loyal  to  his 
king,  and  was  consequently  obliged  to  escape  from  Carolina. 

The  most  marked  trace  of  the  war  is  to  be  seen  in  the  monument 
of  Major  Andre;  and  the  fact,  that,  in  1812,  Andre's  body  was  sent 
back  to  England  by  the  Americans,  with  every  mark  of  courtesy  and 
respect,  shows  how  rapidly  all  traces  of  exasperation  were  obliterated 
between  brother  nations. 

There  are  several  other  objects  which  will  remind  Americans  of 
their  country.  One  is  the  beautiful  window  in  honor  of  Herbert  and 
Cowper  at  the  western  end  of  the  nave,  in  the  old  baptistery,  which  was 
the  munificent  gift  of  an  American  citizen.  The  other  is  some  faint 
adumbration  of  Boston  Harbor,  which  may  be  seen  at  the  opposite  end 
of  the  abbey,  —  the  east  end  of  Henry  the  Seventh's  Chapel,  at  the 
corner  of  the  memorial  window  raised  by  the  late  "Dean  to  the  memory 
of  his  wife,  Lady  Augusta  Stanley.  A  third  is  the  tomb  in  the  nave 
which  was  raised  to  Viscount  Howe  by  the  Province  of  Massachusetts. 
The  genius  of  Massachusetts  is  represented  weeping  over  the  monu- 
ment.    Ticonderoga  appears  on  the  monument  of  Col.  Townsend. 

Even  in  walking  through  the  abbey,  to  learn  its  general  aspect,  you 
will  be  struck  by  the  bewildering  multiplicity  of  tombs.  There  is  not  a 
Valhalla  in  the  world  in  which  repose  so  many  of  the  great  and  good.  It 
is  this  which  has  made  the  deepest  impression  on  multitudes  of  visitors. 

There,  over  the  western  door,  with  his  arm  outstretched,  and  his 
haughty  head  thrown  back,  as  though  in  loud  and  sonorous  utterance 
he  were  still  pouring  forth  to  the  Parliament  of  England  the  language 
of  indomitable  courage  and  inflexible  resolve,  stands  William  Pitt. 
History  is  recording  his  words  of  eloquence.  Anarchy  sits,  like  a 
chained  giant,  at  his  feet. 


20  ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 

And  within  a  few  yards  of  this  fine  monument  is  the  no  less  inter- 
esting memorial  of  Charles  James  Fox,  —  of  Fox,  who  opposed  Pitt's 
public  funeral  ;  of  Fox,  whom  he  once  charged  with  using  the  language 
of  a  man  "mad  with  desperation  and  disappointment." 

Return  with  me  to  the  nave.  Directly  we  enter  by  the  west  door, 
we  are  struck  by  the  unbroken  unity  of  design  presented  by  the  archi- 
tecture. Though  Henry  III.  began  to  rebuild  it  in  1245,  and  it  was 
continued  by  Edward  I.  in  the  thirteenth  century,  by  Richard  II.  in 
the  fourteenth,  and  by  Henry  V.  in  the  fifteenth,  yet  it  is  only  when 
you  look  at  the  great  west  window,  which  was  not  finished  till  nearly 
the  sixteenth  century,  that  the  style  of  architecture  changes  from  the 
Gothic  to  the  Perpendicular.  The  work  of  Henry  III.  ends  with  the 
first  pillar  of  the  choir. 

You  will  observe  that  the  next  pillars  have  annulets  of  copper  round 
the  pilasters,  and  that  the  walls  are  richly  carved  and  diapered  as  far 
as  the  first  pillar  of  the  nave.  That  pillar  marks  the  termination  of 
Edward  the  First's  work.  The  continuation  of  the  nave  under  Rich- 
ard II.  is  less  rich.  The  completed  nave  was  first  used  for  service  in 
the  Te  Deum  in  honor  of  the  great  victory  at  Agincourt  by  Henry  V. 
The  great  west  window  was  built  by  Abbot  Estney  in  the  reign  of 
Henry  VII. 

The  most  noticeable  tombs  in  the  nave  (and  to  the  nave  alone  we 
must  at  present  confine  our  attention)  may  be  classed  together  under 
different  heads. 

There  are  the  monuments  to  great  statesmen,  to  the  naval  com- 
manders, to  former  deans  of  Westminster,  and  to  the  great  Indian 
heroes.  It  is  singular  how  exceedingly  bad  many  of  the  epitaphs  are, 
and  how,  as  we  approach  the  eighteenth  century,  they  grow  more  and 
more  verbose  and  futile  in  exact  proportion  as  the  sentiments  expressed 
by  the  statuary  grow  more  and  more  irreligious  and  fantastic. 

The  inscription  on  the  grave  of  Clyde  briefly  records  his  "  fifty  years 
of  arduous  service."  On  Outram's  monument  is  a  bass-relief  of  the 
memorable  scene  in  which  he  met  Havelock  at  Delhi,  and,  resigning  to 
him  the  command,  nobly  served  as  a  volunteer  beneath  his  military 
inferior.  On  Pollock's  grave  is  the  appropriate  text,  "  O  God,  Thou 
strength  of  my  health,  Thou  hast  covered  my  head  in  the  day  of  bat- 
tle." Under  the  bust  of  Lawrence  are  carved  the  striking  words,  "He 
feared  man  so  little,  because  he  feared  God  so  much." 

A  very  different  class  of  monument  are  those  which  were  once 
admired  as  the  masterpieces  of  the  sculptors  Read  and  Roubiliac.     To 


ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 


21 


Read  is  due  the  monstrous  incongruity  of  crudely  assembled  emblems 
which  record  the  name  of  Admiral  Tyrrell,  and  which  commanded  the 
special  admiration  of  John  Wesley  when  he  visited  the  abbey  in  1771. 
Of  other  monuments,  Goldsmith  complained  that  "  they  confer  honor, 
not  on  the  great  men,  but  on  little  Roubiliac."  They  mark  the  pseudo- 
classic  and  allegorical  taste  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

On  the  monument  of  Marshal  Wade,  Fame  is  protecting  from  the 
hands  of  Time  his  military  trophies.     On  that  of  Gen.  Fleming  are 


Westminster   Abbey. 

Minerva  and  Hercules,  busy,  apparently,  with  emblems  of  Wisdom, 
Prudence,  and  Valor. 

Another  of  these  monuments  is  that  of  a  Gen.  Hargrave,  of  whom 
Goldsmith  contemptuously  speaks  as  "some  rich  man."  A  cherub  is 
blowing  the  last  trumpet ;  and,  as  he  blows,  the  huge  pyramid  tumbles 
to  pieces,  while  the  general  rises  from  his  sarcophagus.  This  part  of 
the  sculpture  is  so  ill-managed,  that  the  shattered  pyramid  is  usually 
taken  as  a  sign  that  the  dean  and  chapter  shamefully  neglect  the  tombs. 

At  the  right  of  the  monument,  Death,  a  crowned  skeleton,  is  being 
overcome  by  Time.  The  crown  falls  off  his  head,  and  Time  breaks  the 
fatal  arrow  of  the  monster  across  his  knee. 


22  ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 

These  allegorical  designs  all  seem  to  be  smitten  with  the  fatal  blight 
of  unreality.  It  is  obvious  that  the  sculptors  and  designers  were  chiefly 
occupied  with  a  sense  of  their  own  ingenuity,  instead  of  being  inspired 
by  the  grandeur  of  their  subjects. 

Yet  we  should  always  bear  in  mind,  that  even  the  worst  monument 
in  the  abbey  has  its  historical  significance.  Its  allegories,  its  ugliness, 
its  obtrusiveness,  are  like  tide-marks  which  indicate  the  height  or  the 
depth  to  which  the  taste  of  the  age  had  risen  or  sunk. 

How  deep,  for  instance,  is  the  significance  of  the  fact,  that,  as  age 
after  age  advances,  the  tombs  seem  to  grow  more  and  more  worldly, 
less  and  less  religious  !  They  seem  more  and  more  to  thrust  on  our 
notice  the  pomposities  of  life,  and  less  and  less  the  awful  stillness  and 
humiliation  of  death.  The  tombs  of  the  Plantagenet  kings  and  cru- 
saders represent  them  lying  in  death,  with  the  hands  clasped  in  prayer 
across  the  breast. 

But,  as  time  advances,  the  effigies  gradually  rise  to  their  knees,  then 
to  their  feet.  Then  they  deal  in  stately  or  impassioned  gesticulation, 
like  Pitt  and  Chatham.  At  last,  they  seem  to  have  lost  the  last  touch 
of  awful  reverence,  and  like  Wilberforce,  with  a  broad  smile  upon  their 
lips,  they  loll  in  marble  upon  their  easy-chairs ! 

Apart  from  the  monuments,  there  are,  in  the  nave,  several  graves 
and  cenotaphs  of  deep  interest.  By  the  west  door  is  the  modest  mar- 
ble slab  which  records  how  Jeremiah  Horrox,  though  he  died  as  a 
humble  curate  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  was  the  first  to  rectify  Kep- 
ler's theory  of  the  motion  of  the  moon,  and  to  show  that  it  might  be 
represented  as  "an  elliptic  orbit  with  a  variable  eccentricity,  and  an 
oscillatory  motion  on  the  line  of  the  apsides."  He  was  also  the  first 
to  observe  a  transit  of  Venus,  which  he  succeeded  in  doing  on  Dec.  4, 
1639,  between  two  of  the  three  religious  services  for  which  he  was  on 
that  day  responsible. 

There  is,  close  by,  the  bust  of  Zachary  Macaulay,  the  father  of 
Lord  Macaulay,  and  the  great  opponent  of  the  slave-trade.  The  in- 
scription—  written  by  Sir  James  Stephen  —  is  well  worth  reading  for 
the  beauty  and  eloquence  of  the  language.  There  is  the  grave  of  John 
Hunter,  the  great  anatomist.  Close  by  this  is  the  simple  rectangu- 
lar slab  under  which  Ben  Jonson  was  buried  upright,  having  asked 
Charles  I.  for  eighteen  square  inches  of  ground  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
On  this  stone  was  carved  the  quaint  and  striking  epitaph,  "  O  rare 
Ben  Jonson,"  which,  only  the  accidental  expression  of  a  passer-by,  was 
afterwards  copied  upon  his  bust  in  "Poet's  Corner." 


ARTHUR   PENRHYN  STANLEY.  23 

Near  the  centre  of  the  nave  a  slab  records  that  the  grave  beneath 
was  the  resting-place,  for  some  months,  of  the  body  of  George  Pea- 
body  ;  and  on  this  slab  are  carved  the  words  of  his  early  prayer,  that, 
if  God  prospered  him,  He  would  enable  him  to  render  some  memorial 
service  to  his  fellow-men. 

A  little  farther  on  is  the  grave  of  Livingstone,  which  records  the 
last  pathetic  words  found  in  his  diary  :  "  All  I  can  add  in  my  loneli- 
ness, is,  May  Heaven's  rich  blessing  come  down  on  every  one,  Ameri- 
can, English,  or  Turk,  who  will  help  to  heal  this  open  sore  of  the 
world,"  — the  slave-trade. 

There  are,  however,  two  monuments  to  which  I  must  lead  you 
before  I  conclude.  One  is  the  monument  to  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  close 
beside  whose  grave  were  laid  the  mortal  remains  of  Charles  Darwin. 

The  tomb  of  Newton  is  well  worth  your  notice,  from  its  intrinsic 
beauty,  as  well  as  from  the  fact  that  it  is  placed  above  the  last  resting- 
place  of  one  of  the  greatest  of  Englishmen.  The  monument  is  by 
Rysbraeck.  Over  it  is  a  celestial  globe,  on  which  is  marked  the  course 
of  the  comet  of  1680.  Leaning  on  this  is  the  figure  of  Astronomy, 
who  has  closed  her  book  as  though,  for  the  time,  her  labors  were  over. 

The  very  ingenious  bas-relief  below  expresses  in  allegory  the 
various  spheres  of  Newton's  labors.  At  the  right,  three  lovely  little 
genii  are  minting  money,  to  indicate  Newton's  services  to  the  currency  ; 
near  them,  a  boy  looking  through  a  prism  symbolizes  the  discoveries 
of  Newton  respecting  the  laws  of  light;  a  fifth — who  (like  other 
geniuses)  has  at  present  unhappily  lost  his  head  —  is  weighing  the  sun 
on  a  steelyard  against  Mercury,  Mars,  Venus,  the  Earth,  Jupiter,  and 
Saturn,  which  very  strikingly  shadows  forth  the  discovery  of  the  laws 
of  gravitation  ;  at  the  extreme  left,  two  other  genii  reverently  tend  an 
aloe,  the  emblem  of  immortal  fame.  Over  the  bas-relief  reclines  the 
fine  statue  of  the  great  discoverer,  whose  elbow  leans  on  four  volumes 
of  Divinity,  Optics,  and  Astronomy  and  Mathematics. 

There  is  one  more  monument  in  the  nave,  at  which  Americans  will 
look  with  special  interest.  It  is  the  tomb  of  the  gallant  and  ill-fated 
Andre.  Every  American  knows  how  he  was  arrested  in  disguise 
within  the  American  lines  in  1780,  and,  for  a  moment,  lost  his  pres- 
ence of  mind,  and  neglected  to  produce  the  safe  conduct  of  the  traitor, 
Benedict  Arnold.  He  was  sentenced  to  be  hung  as  a  spy  ;  and  in 
spite  of  the  deep  sympathy  which  his  fate  excited,  even  among  the 
Americans,  Washington  did  not  think  himself  justified  in  relaxing  the 
sentence. 


24  ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 

The  touching  bas-relief  represents,  on  one  side,  a  British  officer, 
who  is  carrying  a  flag  of  truce  and  a  letter  to  the  tent  of  Gen. 
Washington,  with  the  entreaty  of  Andre,  that,  as  a  soldier,  he  might 
be  shot,  and  not  hung.     One  of  the  American  officers  is  weeping. 

The  request  was  refused  ;  but,  as  it  would  have  been  too  painful 
to  represent  Andre's  death  on  the  gibbet,  the  sculptor  has  represented 
his  youthful  and  handsome  figure  standing  at  the  right  of  the  bas- 
relief  before  a  platoon  of  soldiers,  as  though  his  petition  had  in  reality 
been  granted.  The  sculptor,  Van  Gelder,  has  been  very  successful  ; 
but  the  heads  of  Washington  and  Andre  have  several  times  been 
knocked  off  and  stolen  by  base  and  sacrilegious  hands. 

The  American  visitor  will  gaze  on  the  tomb  with  still  deeper  inter- 
est when  he  is  told  that  the  wreath  of  richly  colored  autumn  leaves  on 
the  marble  above  was  brought  from  the  site  where  Andrews  gibbet  stood, 
and  placed  where  it  now  is  by  the  hands  of  Arthur  Stanley,  late  Dean 
of  Westminster. 


A  MORNING    WITH 

DR.   FRANCIS  TREVELYAN   BUCKLAND,1 


NATURALIST. 


By   WILLIAM   H.   RIDEING. 


IN  Albany  Street,  near  the  borders  of  Regent's  Park,  London,  is  a 
modest  little  house,  which  is  like  the  houses  on  both  sides  and 
across  the  way,  except  that,  at  the  windows  and  in  the  balcony,  there 
are  a  number  of  cages,  the  occupants  of  which  twitter  and  whistle  in 
a  chorus  that  attracts  the  most  hurried  passer-by.  The  noisiest  of  the 
birds  is  a  parrot,  with  great  glibness  of  speech  and  a  spectral  laugh. 

"  Hold  hard  !  I  say,  hold  hard  there  !  "  screams  Polly  to  the  pass- 
ing omnibus ;  and,  should  she  succeed  in  bringing  it  up,  her  feathers 
shake  with  convulsive  merriment. 

She  is  fluent,  also,  in  the  language  of  the  drivers,  and  growls  out, 
"  Whoa,  back !  "  or,  "  Come  up  !  "  in  so  natural  a  way,  that  the  most 
intelligent  of  horses  would  be  excusable  for  taking  it  to  be  the  voice 
of  his  master. 

There  is  usually  in  front  of  the  house  a  crowd  of  children,  who  are 
very  much  interested  in  the  basement-window.  Sometimes  it  is  a 
man  painting  the  cast  of  a  fish  that  they  see,  sometimes  a  gigantic 
fossil  skull,  and  sometimes  rows  of  bottles  filled  with  clammy  speci- 
mens of  natural  history.  Nothing  less  than  the  Zoological  Gardens, 
which  are  in  the  neighborhood,  satisfies  them  as  well  as  this  basement- 
window. 

The  door-plate  has  a  name  upon  it  with  which  every  reader  of  Eng- 
lish is  acquainted,  —  Mr.  Frank  Buckland  ;  and  this  is  the  home  of  the 
most  popular  expositor  of  natural  history  in  the  world.      It  is  not  diffi- 

1  Since  this  article  was  written,  Mr.  Buckland  has  died. 


26  DR.  FRANCIS  TREVELYAN  BUCK  LAND. 

cult  to  account  for  his  popularity.  Many  naturalists  have  studied  the 
habits  and  structure  of  animals  with  no  less  care  and  scientific  judg- 
ment than  he  has  ;  but,  above  his  other  qualifications,  he  has  brought 
to  his  occupation  a  sympathetic  insight  of  the  feelings  of  dumb  crea- 
tures, and  has  interpreted  their  thoughts,  desires,  and  emotions  with 
wonderful  understanding. 

He  has  established  confidential  relations  with  monkeys,  and  has 
learned  the  aspirations  and  disappointments  of  the  beasts  of  the  field. 
When  he  writes  about  one  of  the  creatures  whose  acquaintance  he  has 
made,  it  seems  to  be  a  revelation  of  private  life  ;  and  the  sympathy 
which  he  shows  awakens  similar  feelings  in  us.  The  monkey  is  no 
longer  a  speechless  brute.  It  becomes,  through  Mr.  Buckland's  inter- 
pretation, a  genial  and  intelligent  fellow-being.  He  has  done  more 
than  any  one  else  to  make  the  animal  world  intelligible  to  man,  and 
yet  he  is  a  resolute  opponent  of  the  Darwinian  theory. 

"  It  is  a  great  fallacy,  sir,"  he  said  to  us  one  morning,  when  we 
happened  to  be  at  the  little  house  in  Albany  Street.  "  I've  lived  all 
my  life  with  monkeys  about  me,  and  have  loved  them,  and  watched 
them,  and  admired  their  cleverness.  But,  when  the  very  lowest  of  the 
human  race  is  placed  alive  and  in  good  health  alongside  the  very  high- 
est of  the  monkey  family,  it  will  be  immediately  perceived  that  there 
is  a  vast  gulf  between  the  two  which  has  never  been  bridged  over." 

He  is  a  son  of  Dean  Stanley's  predecessor  at  Westminster,  and  was 
educated  at  Winchester  School  and  Oxford  University.  For  some  time 
he  served  as  surgeon  in  the  Second  Life-Guards,  and  he  is  now  the 
government  inspector  of  fisheries.  The  latter  is,  at  least,  one  of  his 
positions  ;  and,  in  addition  to  this,  he  is  editor  of  "  Land  and  Water," 
and  an  active  worker  of  the  Zoological  Society. 

While  we  were  with  him,  he  received  a  letter  from  the  Home  Sec- 
retary, instructing  him  to  attend  to  some  business  at  the  Billingsgate 
Market  in  his  capacity  of  inspector  of  fisheries  ;  another,  complaining 
that  no  whitebait  could  be  had  for  a  forthcoming  ministerial  dinner  at 
Greenwich  ;  another,  begging  him  to  come  to  the  relief  of  a  lion  which 
had  hurt  its  foot  ;  and  a  fourth,  demanding  "copy  "  for  his  paper.  Al- 
though he  is  an  invalid,  he  crowds  the  work  of  several  men  into  his 
life. 

Mr.  Buckland  is  a  thick-set  gentleman  of  medium  height ;  courte- 
ous, but  nervous  in  manner ;  humorous  in  his  way  of  looking  at  things, 
and  fifty-four  years  of  age.  He  was  born  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford, 
inheriting  a  taste  for  natural  history  and  scientific  investigation  from 


DR.  FRANCIS   TREVELYAN  BUCKLAND.  27 

his  parents.  In  a  portrait  of  him,  at  the  age  of  three,  he  is  hugging  a 
rabbit ;  and  an  old-fashioned  silhouette,  over  his  study  mantel-piece, 
represents  him  as  a  chubby  little  fellow  in  petticoats,  sitting  astraddle 
of  an  elephant's  trunk  under  a  table,  while  his  father  and  mother  are 
poring  over  some  specimens  above. 

From  the  basement,  with  peeps  of  which  the  children  in  the  street 
amuse  themselves,  to  the  upper  stories,  the  little  house  abounds  with 
curiosities,  which  are  distributed  through  most  of  the  rooms.  But  the 
greatest  number  are  in  Mr.  Buckland's  sanctum,  on  the  second  floor, 
where  the  walls  are  completely  hidden  under  the  treasures  hanging 
from  them,  and  every  shelf  is  loaded  with  articles  of  interest. 

At  a  desk,  piled  with  correspondence,  books,  and  newspaper  clip- 
pings, is  a  spacious  arm-chair  made  out  of  the  bedstead  of  John  Hunter, 
the  famous  surgeon.  There  are  savage  weapons,  the  boots  of  a  giant, 
the  skull  of  a  gorilla,  the  jaws  of  a  fish,  the  head  of  a  bear,  the  poi- 
soned arrows  of  the  South-American  Indians,  and  scores  of  glass  jars 
containing  fish  and  reptiles  in  pickle. 

It  would  not  be  a  desirable  place  for  an  imaginative  boy  to  fall  asleep 
in,  unless  his  courage  would  sustain  him  in  dreamed-of  encounters  with 
panthers  and  crocodiles.  In  all  corners,  there  is  something  to  feed  the 
imagination,  —  something  to  remind  us  of  the  wonders  of  wild  nature, 
except  where  the  books  are ;  and  those  are  mostly  about  animal  life. 

Mr.  Buckland  said  to  us,  "  If  I  wished  a  boy  to  learn  natural  his- 
tory, I  would  dispense  with  books  as  far  as  possible,  and  would  send 
him  into  the  forest,  and  let  him  collect  specimens.  Then  I  would  give 
him  a  dissecting-knife,  and  tell  him  to  observe  for  himself." 

We  are  quite  sure  that  all  boys  would  appreciate  the  excellence 
of  this  method,  and  vastly  prefer  it  to  any  other  ;  but  the  variety  and 
extent  of  Mr.  Buckland's  library  are  proofs  that  he  would  be  misunder- 
stood if  it  were  supposed,  that,  though  valuing  observation,  he  does 
not  recognize  books  as  being  necessary  to  the  perfection  of  all  knowl- 
edge. He  is  an  industrious  note-taker,  and  scatters  pencils  about  his 
study,  that  one  may  always  be  at  hand  when  he  has  a  thought  to  jot 
down,  or  a  fact  to  record.  As  he  exhibits  his  specimens,  he  becomes 
rapturous.  "Isn't  that  a  beauty?"  he  demands,  showing  us  some 
monstrosity,  and  handling  it  with  the  greatest  affection  ;  and,  though 
it  may  strike  us  as  being  decidedly  unpleasant  to  look  at,  it  is  only 
kind  in  us  to  murmur  some  word  of  responsive  admiration. 

Besides  the  birds,  Mr.  Buckland's  living  pets  are  three  monkeys, 
which  are  intelligent  beyond    their  kind,  and   are  allowed    privileges 


28 


DR.  FRANCIS  TREVELYAN  BUCKLAND. 


which  other  monkeys  might  well  envy.  Tiny  the  Third  and  Margate 
Jack  occupy  a  cage  together,  and  are  the  best  of  friends ;  while  Jam- 
rach,  who  is  named  after  the  celebrated  dealer  in  wild  beasts,  has  a 
house  of  his  own,  and  is  conscious  of  a  greater  importance. 

Jamrach's  career  has  been  eventful.     He  was  a  sacred  monkey  in 
India,  and  allowed  to  swing  his  tail  around  the  pinnacles  of  temples, 

and  to  caper  in  the  groves,  unmolested. 
But  an  evil  day  came  for  him  when  he 
was  kidnapped,  and  sold  into  the  misera- 
ble bondage  of  an  organ-grinder.     The 
spicy  breezes  and  the  shadowy  quiet  of 
the   groves  were  forever  lost   to   him. 
The  dull  routine  of   his  life 
was  to  turn  idiotic  somersets 
in  petticoats  and   a   turban, 
and   to  solicit  pen- 
nies from  the  public 
with    insincere   gri- 
maces.    One   lucky 
day,    however,   .Mr. 
Buckland  saw  him, 
IN         and     bought     him  ; 
and,  since  then,  his 
lot  has  been  as  hap- 
py as  it  could  possi- 
bly be  in  captivity. 

Jamrach  has  a 
queer,  smooth,  old- 
fashioned  face,  and 
is  not  as  good-looking  as  either 
Tiny  or  Margate  Jack.  But  he 
is  fond  of  his  master,  and  fa- 
miliar with  visitors,  and  is  the 
favorite  of  the  three.  Having  crawled  up  into  our  lap,  and  made 
acquaintance  with  us,  he  passed  over  our  shoulders  to  Mr.  Buckland, 
and  sat  contentedly  on  that  gentleman's  knee  while  his  hair  was  care- 
fully parted  and  combed.  But  Jamrach  is  a  great  glutton  and  a  thief, 
and  is  much  too  fond  of  beer. 

Mr.   Buckland  took  us  into  the  basement,  which  is  his  workshop, 
where   casts   are    made,    and    the    dissecting   and    stuffing    are    done. 


DR.  FRANCIS  TREVELYAN  BUCKLAND.  29 

"  Look  at  that  :  isn't  it  a  shame  !  "  he  said,  taking  up  some  fine  trout 
which  had  been  killed  by  the  pollution  of  their  native  river ;  and  his 
voice  trembled  with  pity. 

Here,  also,  were  baskets  of  seaweed,  and  tubs  and  jars  containing 
all  sorts  of  specimens,  some  of  which  saluted  our  nostrils  in  a  way 
that  made  a  smouldering  piece  of  brown  paper  a  gratifying  relief. 

When  we  went  up-stairs  again,  we  found  Jamrach  sitting  by  a  half- 
finished  glass  of  beer,  and  hurriedly  scooping  it  into  his  mouth  with 
the  hollow  of  his  hand.  As  soon  as  he  saw  us,  he  made  off,  conscious 
of  his  iniquity,  and  seized  an  apple  from  the  table  as  he  retreated.  A 
shilling,  which  had  been  left  on  the  table,  was  missing  also  ;  and,  when 
Jamrach  was  captured,  it  was  found  secreted  in  his  pouch,  out  of  which 
he  was  forced  to  disgorge  it. 

No  money  can  be  safely  left  near  him  :  but  Mr.  Buckland  is  forget- 
ful, and  leaves  his  change  about ;  and  Mrs.  Buckland  compounds  Jam- 
rach's  felony  by  adding  what  he  steals  to  her  pin-money. 

When  he  is  particularly  misbehaved,  a  bear's  head,  or  an  eel,  which 
he  takes  to  be  a  snake,  is  shown  to  him  ;  and  he  screams  out  with  peni- 
tence and  fear.  The  same  objects  also  excite  the  greatest  terror  in 
Tiny  and  Margate  Jack ;  and,  whenever  they  are  produced,  there  is 
such  a  commotion  that  the  loquacious  parrot  loses  its  temper,  and 
remonstrates  in  unmeasured  language.  But  the  family  in  Albany 
Street  is  usually  very  happy. 


DICKENS  WITH   HIS  CHILDREN 


By  MAMIE  DICKENS, 

HIS   DAUGHTER. 
I. 

I  HAVE  been  asked  to  write  on  the  subject  of  "The  Child  Friend- 
ships of  Charles  Dickens."  But  we  have  no  record  of  any  very 
early  friendships,  and  I  know  nothing  more  of  his  childhood  days  than 
what  Mr.  Forster  has  told  us.  He  was  a  very  little,  and  a  very  sickly, 
boy ;  but  he  had  always  the  belief  that  this  early  sickness  had  brought 
to  himself  one  inestimable  advantage,  in  the  circumstance  of  his  weak 
health  having  strongly  inclined  him  to  reading.  But  he  was  of  a  most 
affectionate  and  genial  disposition  ;  and  there  can  be  little  doubt,  that, 
with  such  a  nature,  he  must  have  made  many  friendships. 

When  money-troubles  came  upon  his  parents,  the  poor  little  fellow 
was  taken  away  from  school,  and  kept  for  some  time  to  an  occupation 
most  distasteful  to  him,  with  every  surrounding  jarring  on  his  sensitive 
and  refined  feelings.  But  the  great  hardship,  and  the  one  which  he 
felt  most  acutely,  was  the  want  of  the  companionship  of  boys  of  his 
own  age.  A  few  years  later  on,  we  read,  in  Mr.  Forster's  Life,  a 
school-fellow's  description  of  Charles  Dickens:  — 

"  A  healthy-looking  boy,  small,  but  well-built,  with  a  more  than 
usual  flow  of  spirits,  inclining  to  harmless  fun,  seldom  or  never,  I 
think,  to  mischief.  He  usually  held  his  head  more  erect  than  lads 
ordinarily  do,  and  there  was  a  general  smartness  about  him." 

This  is  also  a  very  good  description  of  the  man. 

I  have  never  heard  him  refer,  in  any  way,  to  his  own  childish  days, 

excepting  in  one   instance, — when   he  had  been  telling  the  story  of 

how,  when  he  lived  at  Chatham,  he  and  his  father  often  passed  Gad's 

Hill  in  their  walks,  and  what  an  admiration  he  had  for  the  red  brick 

30 


DICKENS    WITH  HIS   CHILDREN.  3 1 

house,  with  its  beautiful  old  cedar-trees,  and  how  it  seemed  to  him  to 
be  larger  and  finer  than  any  other  house  ;  and  that  his  father  would 
tell  him,  that  if  he  were  to  be  very  persevering,  and  were  to  work 
hard,  he  might  perhaps  some  day  come  to  live  in  it. 

I  have  heard  him  tell  this  story  over  and  over  again,  when  he  had 
indeed  become  the  possessor  of  the  place  which  had  taken  such  a  hold 
upon  his  childish  affections. 

Beyond  this,  I  cannot  recall  a  single  instance  of  any  allusion  being 
made  by  him  to  his  early  childhood.  I  am  unable,  therefore,  to  write 
any  thing  new  on  this  score. 

But  I  will  try  and  write  down  a  few  reminiscences  of  my  own,  feel- 
ing that  they  will  be  read  with  interest,  believing,  as  I  do,  that  in  no 
country  are  his  writings  more  widely  known,  or  his  name  more  affec- 
tionately reverenced,  than  in  the  great  country  of  America. 

Charles  Dickens  believed  the  power  of  observation  in  numbers  of 
very  young  children  to  be  quite  wonderful  for  its  closeness  and  accu- 
racy, and  he  thought  that  the  recollection  of  most  of  us  could  go 
farther  back  than  many  of  us  suppose.  I  do  not  know  how  far  my  own 
memory  may  carry  me  back,  but  I  have  no  remembrance  of  my  child- 
hood which  is  not  immediately  associated  with  him. 

He  had  a  wonderful  sympathy  with  children,  and  a  wonderfully 
quick  perception  of  their  character  and  disposition  ;  a  most  winning 
and  easy  way  with  them,  full  of  fun,  but  full,  also,  of  a  graver  sym- 
pathy with  their  many  small  troubles  and  perplexities,  which  made 
them  recognize  at  once  a  friend  in  him. 

I  have  often  seen  mere  babies,  who  would  look  at  no  other  stranger 
present,  put  out  their  tiny  arms  to  him  with  unbounded  confidence,  or 
place  a  small  hand  in  his,  and  trot  away  with  him,  quite  proud  and 
contented  at  having  found  such  a  companion.  And,  although  with  his 
own  children  he  had  sometimes  a  sterner  manner  than  he  had  with 
others,  there  was  not  one  of  them  who  feared  to  go  to  him  for  help  and 
advice,  knowing  well  that  there  was  no  trouble  too  small  or  too  trivial 
to  claim  his  attention,  and  that,  in  him,  they  would  always  find  unvary- 
ing justice  and  love. 

If  any  treat  had  to  be  asked  for,  the  second  little  daughter,  always 
a  pet  of  her  father's,  was  pushed  into  his  study  by  the  other  children, 
and  always  returned  triumphant. 

He  wrote  special  prayers  for  them  as  soon  as  they  could  speak, 
interested  himself  in  their  lessons,  would  give  prizes  for  industry,  for 
punctuality,  for  neat  and  unblotted  copy-books.     A  word  of  commen- 


32 


DICKENS    WITH  HIS   CHILDREN. 


dation  from  him  was  indeed  most  highly  cherished,  and  would  set  our 
hearts  glowing  with  pride  and  pleasure. 

His  study  —  to  these  children  —  was  rather  a  mysterious  and  awe- 
inspiring  chamber ;  and,  while  he  was  at  work,  nobody  was  allowed  to 
enter  it.     The  little  ones  had  to  pass  the  door  as  quietly  as  possible,  and 

the  little  tongues  left  off 
7\  chattering.  But  at  no 
time  through  his  busy 
life  was  he  ever  too 
busy  to  think  of  them, 
to  amuse  them,  or  to 
interest  himself  in  all 
that  concerned  them. 

Ever    since    I    can 

remember    any    thing, 

I    remember    him    as 

the  good  genius  of 

the  house,  and  as  the 

happy,  bright, 

and     funny 


Charles  Dickens  with  his  Children. 


genius.  He  had  a  peculiar  tone  of  voice  and  way  of  speaking  for  each 
of  the  children,  who  could  tell,  without  being  called  by  name,  which 
was  the  one  addressed. 

He  had  funny  songs  which  he  used  to  sing  to  them  before  they 
went  to  bed.  One  in  particular,  about  an  old  man  who  caught  cold 
and  rheumatism  while  riding  in  an  omnibus,  was  a  great  favorite ; 
and  as  it  was  accompanied  by  sneezes,  coughs,  and  funny  gesticula- 


DICKENS   WITH  HIS   CHILDREN.  33 

tions,  it  had  to  be  sung  over  and  over  again  before  the  small  audience 
was  satisfied. 

I  can  see  him  now,  through  the  mist  of  years,  with  a  child  nearly 
always  on  his  knee,  his  bright  and  beautiful  eyes  full  of  life  and  fun. 
I  can  hear  his  clear  and  sweet  voice,  as  he  sang  to  those  children,  as  if 
he  had  no  other  occupation  in  the  world  but  to  amuse  them.  And  when 
they  grew  older,  and  were  able  to  act  little  plays,  it  was  the  father  him- 
self who  was  teacher,  manager,  prompter,  to  these  infantine  amateurs. 

And  these  theatricals  were  undertaken  as  earnestly  and  seriously 
as  were  those  of  the  grown-up  people.  He  would  teach  the  children 
their  parts  separately,  —  teach  them  what  to  do,  and  how  to  do  it,  act- 
ing himself  for  their  edification.  At  one  moment  he  would  be  the 
dragon  in  "  Fortunio  ; "  at  the  next,  one  of  the  seven  servants ;  then 
taking  the  part  of  a  jockey,  played  by  the  youngest  child,  a  mere  baby, 
whose  little  legs  had  much  difficulty  to  get  into  the  top-boots,  —  until  he 
had  taken  every  part  in  the  play.  And,  before  these  children  were  old 
enough  to  act  regular  pieces,  the  same  pains  were  taken  about  any 
little  charade  they  might  ask  for,  any  song  they  were  taught  to  sing ; 
each  child  knowing  well  that  such  pains  had  to  be  taken  before  his 
approval  could  be  won. 

As  with  his  grown-up  company  of  actors,  so  with  his  juvenile  com- 
pany did  his  own  earnestness  and  activity  work  upon  them,  and  affect 
each  personally.  The  shyest  and  most  awkward  child  would  come  out 
quite  brilliantly  under  his  patient  and  always  encouraging  training. 

Then,  again,  at  the  juvenile  parties  he  was  always  the  ruling  spirit. 
He  had  acquired,  by  degrees,  an  excellent  collection  of  conjuring-tricks  ; 
and  on  Twelfth  Nights, — the  eldest  son's  birthday,  —  he  would  very 
often,  dressed  as  a  magician,  give  a  conjuring  entertainment,  when  a 
little  figure,  which  appeared  from  a  wonderful  and  mysterious  bag,  and 
which  was  supposed  to  be  a  personal  friend  of  the  conjurer,  would 
greatly  delight  the  audience  by  his  funny  stories,  his  eccentric  voice 
and  way  of  speaking,  and  by  his  miraculous  appearances  and  dis- 
appearances. 

Of  course,  a  plum-pudding  was  made  in  a  hat,  and  was  always  one 
of  the  great  successes  of  the  evening.  It  would  be  almost  impossible, 
even  to  guess  how  many  such  puddings  have  been  made  since.  But 
surely,  those  made  by  Charles  Dickens  must  have  possessed  some 
special  fairy -power,  no  other  conjurer  being  able  to  put  into  his  pud- 
ding all  the  love,  sympathy,  fun,  and  thorough  enjoyment  which  seemed 
to  come  from  the  very  hands  of  this  great  magician ! 


34  DICKENS   WITH  HIS   CHILDREN. 

Then,  when  supper-time  came,  he  would  be  everywhere  at  once,  — 
carving,  cutting  the  great  Twelfth  Cake,  dispensing  the  bonbons,  pro- 
posing toasts,  and  calling  upon  first  one  child,  and  then  upon  another, 
for  a  song  or  recitation.  How  eager  the  little  faces  looked  for  each 
turn  to  come  round,  and  how  they  would  blush  and  brighten  up  when 
the  magician's  eyes  looked  their  way  ! 

One  year,  before  a  Twelfth-Night  dance,  when  the  two  daughters 
were  quite  tiny  girls,  he  took  it  into  his  head  that  they  must  teach  him 
and  his  friend  (the  late  Mr.  John  Leach  of  "  Punch  ")  the  polka.  The 
lessons  were  begun,  and  continued  for  some  time.  It  must  have  been 
rather  a  funny  sight  to  see  those  two  small  children  teaching  these  two 
men  —  Mr.  Leach  was  over  six  feet  —  to  dance,  all  four  as  solemn  and 
staid  as  possible. 

As  in  every  thing  he  undertook,  so,  in  this  instance,  did  Charles 
Dickens  throw  his  whole  heart  into  the  dance.  No  one  could  have 
taken  more  pains  than  he  did,  or  have  been  more  eager  and  anxious,  or 
more  conscientious  about  steps  and  time,  than  he  was.  And  often, 
when  the  lesson  was  going  on,  he  would  jump  up,  and  have  a  little 
practice  by  himself.  When  the  night  of  the  party  came,  both  the 
small  dancing-mistresses  must  have  felt  a  little  anxious. 

I  know  that  the  heart  of  one  beat  very  fast  when  the  moment  for 
starting  off  arrived.  But  both  pupils  acquitted  themselves  perfectly, 
and  were  the  admiration  of  all  beholders. 

Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  was  always  the  finale  to  these  dances,  and 
was  a  special  favorite  of  Charles  Dickens,  who  kept  it  up  as  long  as 
was  possible,  and  was  as  unflagging  in  his  dancing  and  enthusiasm 
as  was  dear  old  "  Fizziwig  "  in  his.  There  can  be  but  little  doubt  that 
the  children  who  came  to  those  parties,  and  who  have  lived  to  grow  up 
to  be  men  and  women,  must  still  remember  them  as  something  bright 
and  sunny  in  their  young  lives,  and  must  always  retain  a  grateful  and 
loving  feeling  for  their  kind  and  genial  host. 


II. 

In  these  days,  when  Charles  Dickens  was  living  at  Devonshire 
Terrace,  the  children  were  quite  babies.  And  when  he  paid  his  first 
visit  to  America,  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Dickens,  they  were  left  under 
the  care  of  some  relations  and  friends.  Any  one  reading  "  The  Letters 
of  Charles  Dickens  "  must  be  touched  by  his  frequent  allusions  to  these 


DICKENS    WITH  HIS   CHILDREN.  35 

children,  and  by  the  love  and  tenderness  expressed  in  his  longings  to 
see  them  again. 

I  have  a  vague  remembrance  of  the  return  of  the  travellers,  and  of 
being  lifted  up  to  a  gate,  and  kissing  my  father  through  the  bars.  I 
cannot  at  all  recall  his  appearance  at  this  time,  but  know,  from  old 
portraits,  that  his  face  was  beautiful.  I  think  he  was  fond  of  dress, 
and  must  have  been  rather  a  dandy  in  his  way. 

Carrying  my  memory  farther  on,  I  can  remember  him  as  very  hand- 
some. He  had  a  most  beautiful  mouth,  sensitive,  strong,  and  full  of 
character.  This  was,  unfortunately,  hidden  when  he  took  to  wearing 
—  some  years  afterwards  —  a  beard  and  mustache.  But  this  is  the 
only  change  I  can  remember  in  him,  as  to  me  his  face  never  seemed 
to  change  at  all.  He  had  always  an  active,  young,  and  boyish-looking 
figure,  and  a  way  of  holding  his  head,  a  little  thrown  back,  which  was 
very  characteristic. 

Charles  Dickens  was  always  a  great  walker ;  but,  in  these  days,  he 
rode  and  drove  more  than  he  did  in  later  years.  As  the  children  grew 
older,  there  were  evenings  when  they  would  be  allowed  to  drive  out 
into  the  country,  and  then  get  out  of  the  carriage,  and  walk  with 
"papa."  It  seems  now  as  if  the  wild-flowers,  which  used  to  be  gath- 
ered on  those  evenings  in  the  pretty  country  lanes,  were  sweeter  and 
more  beautiful  than  any  which  grow  nowadays. 

Charles  Dickens  brought  a  little  white  Havana  spaniel  with  him 
from  America ;  and,  from  that  time,  there  were  always  various  pets 
about  the  house.  Perhaps,  though,  you  wouldn't  call  either  an  eagle 
or  a  raven  a  pet  ?  The  eagle  had  a  sort  of  grotto  made  for  him  in  the 
garden,  to  which  he  was  chained ;  and,  being  chained,  he  was  not  quite 
such  an  object  of  terror  to  the  children  as  the  raven  was.  But  this 
raven,  with  his  mischievous  nature,  delighted  in  frightening  them,  and 
even  in  hurting  them.  One  of  the  little  daughters  had  very  chubby, 
rosy  legs ;  and  the  raven  used  to  run  after,  and  peck  at  them,  until 
poor  "Tatie's  leds  "  became  a  constant  subject  for  commiseration  ;  and 
she  would  show  her  father  fresh  pecks  and  scratches  many  times  in 
a  day. 

The  raven  was  especially  wicked  to  the  eagle  ;  for  he  would  swoop 
down  upon  the  food  brought  to  the  eagle,  take  it  just  beyond  reach, 
and  mount  guard  over  it,  dancing  round  it,  and  chuckling.  When  he 
considered  that  he  had  tantalized  the  poor  bird  enough,  he  would  eat 
the  food  as  deliberately  and  slowly  as  possible,  and  then  hop  away  per- 
fectly contented  with  himself.     He  was  not  the  celebrated  "Grip"  of 


36  DICKENS   WITH  HIS   CHILDREN. 

"  Barnaby  Rudge,"  but  was  given,  after  the  death  of  that  bird,  to  my 
father. 

In  bringing  up  his  children,  Charles  Dickens  was  always  most  anx- 
ious to  impress  upon  them,  that,  so  long  as  they  were  honest  and 
truthful,  so  would  they  always  be  sure  of  having  justice  done  to  them. 

He  was  always,  as  has  been  observed  before,  tender  with  them  in 
their  small  troubles  and  trials.  When  the  time  came  for  the  eldest 
son  to  be  sent  to  a  boarding-school,  there  was  great  grief  in  the  nur- 
sery at  Devonshire  Terrace  ;  and  Charles  Dickens  came  unexpectedly 
upon  one  of  his  daughters  who  was  putting  away  some  school-books, 
and  crying  bitterly  all  the  time.  To  him  the  separation  could  not 
have  seemed  such  a  terrible  one  ;  as  the  boy  was  certainly  to  come  home 
once  a  month,  if  not  once  a  week.  But  he  soothed  the  weeping  child, 
and  reasoned  with  her,  until,  at  last,  the  sobs  ceased,  and  the  poor, 
aching  little  heart  had  found  consolation  in  the  loving  sympathy  which 
could  enter  so  readily  into  the  feelings  of  a  child. 

A  third  daughter  was  born  in  Devonshire  Terrace,  but  only  lived 
to  be  nine  months  old.  Her  death  was  very  sudden,  and  happened 
while  Charles  Dickens  was  presiding  at  a  public  dinner.  He  had  been 
playing  with  the  baby  before  starting  for  the  dinner,  and  the  little 
thing  was  then  as  well  and  as  bright  as  possible. 

An  evening  or  two  after  her  death,  some  beautiful  flowers  were 
sent,  and  were  brought  into  the  study ;  and  the  father  was  about  to 
take  them  up-stairs,  and  place  them  on  the  little  dead  baby,  when  he 
suddenly  gave  way  completely.  It  is  always  very  terrible  to  see  a 
man  weep  ;  but  to  see  your  own  father  weep,  and  to  see  this  for  the 
first  time  as  a  child,  is  agonizing,  but  also  fills  you  with  a  curious 
wonder. 

When  the  move  was  made  from  Devonshire  Terrace  to  Tavistock 
House, — a  far  larger  and  handsomer  house  than  the  old  home, — 
Charles  Dickens  promised  his  daughters  a  better  bedroom  than  they 
had  ever  had  before,  and  told  them  that  he  should  choose  "  the  bright- 
est of  papers  for  it."  But  they  were  not  to  see  "the  gorgeous  apart- 
ment "  until  it  was  ready  for  their  use.  When  the  time  came  for  the 
move,  and  the  two  girls  were  shown  their  room,  it  surpassed  even  their 
expectations. 

They  found  it  full  of  love  and  thoughtful  care,  and  as  pretty  and 
as  fresh  as  their  hearts  could  desire,  and  with  not  a  single  thing  in  it 
which  had  not  been  expressly  chosen  for  them,  or  planned,  by  their 
father.     The  wall-paper  was  covered  with  wild-flowers  :  the  two  little 


DICKENS    WITH  HIS   CHILDREN.  37 

iron  bedsteads  were  hung  with  a  flowery  chintz.  There  were  two 
toilet-tables,  two  writing-tables,  two  easy-chairs,  etc.,  all  so  pretty  and 
elegant,  and  all  this  in  the  days  when  bedrooms  were  not,  as  a  rule,  so 
luxurious  as  they  are  now. 

With  his  many  occupations,  with  his  constant  and  arduous  work, 
Charles  Dickens  was  never  too  busy  to  be  unmindful  of  the  comfort 
and  welfare  of  those  about  him ;  and  there  was  not  a  corner,  in  any  of 
his  homes,  from  kitchen  to  garret,  which  was  not  constantly  inspected 
by  him,  and  which  did  not  boast  of  some  of  his  neat  and  orderly  con- 
trivances. We  used  to  laugh  at  him  sometimes,  and  say  we  believed 
that  he  was  personally  acquainted  with  every  nail  in  the  house. 

It  was  in  this  home,  some  few  years  later,  that  the  first  grown-up 
theatricals  were  given  ;  and  these  theatricals  were  very  remarkable,  in 
that  nearly  every  part  was  filled  by  some  man  celebrated  in  either 
literature  or  art.  Besides  being  a  really  great  actor,  Charles  Dickens, 
as  a  manager,  was  quite  incomparable.  His  "  Company  "  was  as  well 
trained  as  any  first-class  professional  company ;  and,  although  so  kind 
and  so  pleasant  a  manager,  he  was  properly  feared  and  looked  up  to 
by  every  member  of  his  company. 

The  rehearsals  meant  business  and  hard  work,  and  sometimes  even 
tears  to  a  few,  when  all  did  not  go  quite  satisfactorily  ;  and  each  one 
knew  that  there  could  be  no  trifling,  no  playing  at  work.  And  as  in 
the  children's  performances,  so  in  these  later  ones,  did  Charles  Dickens 
know  every  part,  and  enter  heart  and  soul  into  each  character.  When 
any  new  idea  as  to  any  part  would  come  into  his  head,  he  would  at  once 
propound  it  to  the  actor  or  actress,  who,  looking  upon  the  earnest  face 
and  active  figure,  would  do  his  or  her  very  best  to  gain  a  managerial 
smile  of  approval. 

Charles  Dickens  had  a  temporary  theatre  built  out  into  the  garden, 
and  the  scenes  were  painted  by  some  of  the  greatest  scene-painters  of 
the  day.  A  drop-scene,  representing  Eddystone  Lighthouse,  painted 
for  this  theatre  by  the  late  Clarkson  Stanfield,  R.A.,  was  afterwards 
framed,  and  covered  with  glass,  and  hung  in  the  entrance-hall  at  Gad's 
Hill. 

In  the  play  called  "The  Lighthouse,"  written  by  Mr.  Wilkie  Col- 
lins,—  one  of  the  best  and  most  intimate  of  the  friends  of  Charles 
Dickens,  —  the  great  effect  at  the  end  of  an  act  was  to  come  from  a 
storm  ;  and  the  rehearsing  of  this  storm  was  a  very  serious  matter 
indeed.  There  was  a  long  wooden  box  with  pease  in  it,  to  be  moved 
slowly  up  and  down,  to  represent  rain  ;  a  wheel  to  be  turned  for  wind ; 


38 


DICKENS   WITH  HIS   CHILDREN. 


a  piece  of  oil-cloth  to  be  dashed  upon  oil-cloth,  and  slowly  dragged  away, 
for  the  waves  coming  up  and  then  receding,  carrying  the  pebbles  along 
with  them  ;  a  heavy  weight  rolled  about  upon  the  floor  above  the  stage 
for  thunder. 

At  the  time  of  the  storm,  the  manager's  part  kept  him  on  the  stage  : 
but,  during  rehearsal,  he  somehow  or      \ 
other  managed   to   be  in  the  hall,  — 
where    the    storm   was   worked,  —  as 
well  as  on  the  stage ;  for  he  sometimes 


The  Rehearsal. 


appeared  as  the  rain,  sometimes  the  wind,  first  one  part  of  the  storm, 
and  then  another,  until  he  had  seen  each  separate  part  made  perfect  : 
and  this  storm  was  pronounced  by  the  audience  a  most  wonderful  suc- 
cess. I  know  there  was  such  a  noise  "behind  the  scenes,"  that  we 
could  not  hear  ourselves  speak ;  and  it  was  most  amusing  to  watch  all 
the  actors,  in  their  sailor-dresses,  and  their  various  "make-ups,"  gravely 
and  solemnly  pounding  away  at  the  storm. 


DICKENS    WITH  HIS   CHILDREN.  39 

Then  the  suppers,  after  these  evenings,  were  so  merry  and  so  de- 
lightful !  Many  and  many  of  the  company,  besides  the  dear  "  man- 
ager," have  passed  away ;  but  many  still  remain  to  remember  these 
evenings  with  pleasure,  although  the  pleasure  may  be  mixed  with  pain. 


III. 

Until  Charles  Dickens  came  into  possession  of  Gad's  Hill,  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  removing  his  household  to  some  seaside  place  every 
summer.  For  many  years,  Broadstairs  was  the  favorite  spot ;  and,  for 
some  reasons,  he  rented  a  house  there  called  Fort  House.  Since  those 
days,  the  name  of  it  has  been  changed  to  Bleak  House. 

After  Broadstairs,  Boulogne  became  a  very  favorite  watering-place 
with  Charles  Dickens.  It  was  here,  in  a  charming  villa  quite  out  of 
the  town,  that  he  and  his  youngest  son,  "The  Plorn,"  would  wander 
about  the  garden  together,  admiring  the  flowers  ;  the  little  fellow  being 
taught  to  show  his  admiration  by  holding  up  his  tiny  arms.  There 
were  always  anecdotes  to  be  told  about  "The  Plorn  "  after  these  walks, 
when  his  father  invariably  wound  up  with  the  assertion  that  he  was 
"a  noble  boy."  Being  the  youngest  of  the  family,  he  was  made  a 
great  pet  of,  especially  by  his  father,  and  was  kept  longer  at  home  than 
any  of  his  brothers  had  been. 

When  he  had  to  part  with  this  son  in  1868,  the  housekeeper  at  the 
office  of  Charles  Dickens,  who  saw  him  after  he  had  taken  leave  of 
the  boy,  told  "how  she  had  never  seen  the  master  so  upset ;  and  that, 
when  she  asked  him  how  Mr.  Edward  went  off,  he  burst  into  tears, 
and  couldn't  answer  her  a  word." 

During  the  years  spent  at  Tavistock  House,  one  of  his  daughters 
was  for  a  time  a  great  invalid ;  and,  after  a  worse  attack  of  illness  than 
usual,  he  suggested  that  she  should  be  carried  as  far  as  his  study,  and 
lie  on  the  sofa  there  while  he  was  at  work.  This  was,  of  course,  con- 
sidered an  immense  privilege ;  and,  even  if  she  had  not  felt  as  weak 
and  ill  as  she  did,  she  would  have  been  bound  to  remain  as  still  and 
quiet  as  possible. 

For  some  time,  there  was  no  sound  to  be  heard  in  the  room  but  the 
rapid  working  of  the  pen.  Then,  suddenly,  Mr.  Dickens  jumped  up, 
went  to  the  looking-glass,  rushed  back  to  his  writing-table,  and  jotted 
down  a  few  words ;  back  to  the  glass  again,  this  time  talking  to  his 
own  reflection,  or,  rather,  to  the  simulated  expression  he  saw  there, 


40  DICKENS   WITH  HIS   CHILDREN. 

and  was  trying  to  catch  before  drawing  it  in  words  ;  then  back  again 
to  his  writing.  After  a  little,  he  got  up  again,  and  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  glass,  talking  softly  and  rapidly  for  a  long  time,  after  look- 
ing at  his  daughter,  but  certainly  never  seeing  her;  then  once  more 
went  back  to  his  table,  and  to  steady  writing  until  luncheon-time.  It 
was  a  curious  experience,  and  a  wonderful  thing  to  see  him  throwing 
himself  so  entirely  out  of  himself,  and  into  the  character  he  was  writing 
about. 

His  daughter  has  very  seldom  mentioned  this  incident,  feeling  as 
if  it  would  be  almost  a  breach  of  confidence  to  do  so.  But,  in  these 
reminiscences  of  her  father,  she  considers  it  is  only  right  that  this 
experience  should  be  mentioned,  showing,  as  it  does,  his  characteristic 
earnestness,  and  his  power  of  throwing  himself  completely  and  entirely 
into  the  work  on  which  he  was  engaged. 

For  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life,  his  great  delight  was  to  make 
"the  little  Freehold,"  as  he  called  his  new  Gad's-Hill  estate,  as  com- 
plete and  pretty  as  possible.  Every  year  he  had  some  "  bright  idea," 
or  some  contemplated  "wonderful  improvement,"  to  propound  to  us. 
These  additions  and  alterations  gave  him  endless  amusement  and 
delight,  and  he  would  watch  the  growing  of  each  one  with  the  utmost 
eagerness  and  impatience. 

The  most  important  outdoor  "  improvement "  he  made,  was  a  tun- 
nel to  connect  the  garden  with  the  shrubbery  which  lay  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  high-road,  and  could  be  approached  only  by  leaving  the 
garden,  crossing  the  road,  and  unlocking  a  gate.  The  work  of  excava- 
tion began,  of  course,  from  each  side  ;  and  on  the  day  when  it  was 
supposed  that  the  picks  would  meet,  and  the  light  appear,  Charles 
Dickens  was  so  excited  that  he  had  to  "  knock  off  work,"  and  stood 
for  hours  and  hours  waiting  for  this  consummation.  When,  at  last,  it 
did  come  to  pass,  the  workmen  were  all  "treated,"  and  there  was  a 
general  jubilee  at  Gad's  Hill. 

When,  some  little  time  after,  Monsieur  Fechter  sent  his  friend  a 
two-roomed  clidlct,  it  was  placed  in  the  shrubbery.  The  upper  room 
was  prettily  furnished,  and  fitted  all  round  with  looking-glasses,  to 
reflect  the  view,  which  was  beautiful,  and  was  used  by  Charles  Dickens 
as  a  study  throughout  the  summer. 

He  had  a  passion  for  light,  bright  colors,  and  looking-glasses.  When 
he  built  a  new  drawing-room,  he  had  two  looking-glasses  sunk  into  the 
wall,  opposite  each  other,  which,  being  so  placed,  gave  the  effect  of  an 
endless  corridor,  as   it  were.     I   do  not   remember  how  many  rooms 


DICKENS    WITH  HIS   CHILDREN.  41 

could  thus  be  counted  ;  but  he  would  often  call  some  of  us,  and  ask  if 
we  could  make  out  another,  as  he  certainly  could.  For  one  "  improve- 
ment," he  had  looking-glass  put  into  each  panel  of  the  dining-room 
door,  and,  showing  it  to  his  youngest  daughter,  said,  with  great 
pride,  — 

"  Now,  what  do  you  say  to  this,  Katie  ?  " 

She  laughed,  and  said,  "Well,  really,  papa,  I  think,  when  you're 
an  angel,  your  wings  will  certainly  be  made  of  looking-glass,  and  your 
crown  of  scarlet  geraniums." 

He  loved  all  flowers,  but  especially  bright  flowers  ;  and  scarlet 
geraniums  were  his  favorite  of  all.  There  were  two  large  beds  of 
these  on  the  front  lawn  at  Gad's  Hill ;  and  when  they  were  fully  out, 
making  one  scarlet  mass,  there  was  blaze  enough  to  satisfy  even  his 
love  for  bright  colors.  Even  in  dress  he  was  fond  of  a  great  deal  of 
color ;  and  the  dress  of  a  friend,  who  came  to  his  daughter's  wedding, 
quite  delighted  him,  because  it  was  trimmed  with  a  profusion  of  cherry- 
colored  ribbon. 

The  large  dogs  at  Gad's  Hill  were  quite  a  feature  of  the  place,  and 
were  also  rather  a  subject  of  dread  to  many  outsiders.  But  this  was 
desirable  ;  as  the  house  really  required  protection,  standing,  as  it  did,  on 
the  high-road,  which  was  frequented  by  tramps  of  a  wild  and  low  order, 
who,  in  the  hopping-season,  were  sometimes  even  dangerous.  And  the 
dogs,  though  as  gentle  as  possible  to  their  own  people,  knew  that  they 
were  the  guardians  of  the  place,  and  were  terribly  fierce  to  all  intruders. 

Linda,  a  St.  Bernard,  and  a  beautiful  specimen  of  that  breed,  had 
been,  as  a  puppy,  living  in  the  garden  at  Tavistock  House  before  she 
was  taken  to  Gad's  Hill.  She  and  Turk  —  a  mastiff  —  were  the  con- 
stant companions  in  all  their  master's  walks.  When  he  was  away  from 
home,  and  the  ladies  of  the  family  were  out  alone  with  the  dogs,  Turk 
at  once  felt  the  responsibility  of  his  position,  and  would  guard  them 
with  unusual  devotion,  giving  up  all  play  in  an  instant  when  he  saw 
any  suspicious-looking  figure  approaching.  He  never  made  a  mistake 
in  discovering  the  tramp.  He  would  then  keep  on  the  outside  of  the 
road,  close  to  his  mistresses,  with  an  ominous  turning  up  of  the  lip, 
and  with  any  thing  but  the  usual  mild  expression  in  his  beautiful  large 
brown  eyes. 

But  what  is  to  be  said  about  Mrs.  Bouncer,  —  a  little  white  Pome- 
ranian, with  black  eyes  and  nose,  the  very  sweetest  and  most  bewitch- 
ing of  her  sex  ?  She  was  a  present  to  the  eldest  daughter,  and  was 
brought  by  her  —  a  puppy  of  only  six  weeks'  old  —  to  Tavistock  House. 


42 


DICKENS    WITH  HIS   CHILDREN. 


"The  boys,"  knowing  that  the  little  dog  was  to  arrive,  were  ready  to 
receive  their  sister  at  the  door,  and  escorted  her,  in  a  tremendous  state 

of  excitement,  up  to  the  study.     But  when 
the  little  creature  was  put  down  on  the 
floor,  to  be  exhibited  to  Charles  Dick- 
ens, and  showed  her  pretty  figure, 
and  little  bushy  tail  curling  tight- 
ly over  her  back,  "the  boys" 
could  keep  quiet  no  longer, 
but    fairly    screamed    and 
danced  with  delight. 

From  this  very  first 
moment,  Charles  Dick- 
ens took  to  the  little 
dog,  and  made  a  pet  of 
her ;  and  it  was  he  who 
gave  her  the  name  of 
Mrs.  Bouncer.  He  de- 
lighted to  see  her  out 
with  the  large  dogs,  be- 
cause she  looked  "  so 
preposterously  small " 
by  the  side  of  them,  and 
gave  herself  such  airs 
with  them.  He  had  a  pe- 
culiar voice  and  way  of 
speaking  for  her,  which 
she  knew  perfectly  well, 
and  would  respond  to  at 
once,  running  to  him 
from  any  part  of  the 
house  or  garden  directly 
she  heard  the  call. 
To  be  stroked  with  a  foot  had  great  fascinations  for  Mrs.  Bouncer ; 
and  Charles  Dickens  would  often  and  often  take  off  his  boot  of  an 
evening,  and  sit  stroking  the  little  creature  —  while  he  read  or  smoked 
—  for  an  hour  together.  Although  there  were  times,  I  fear,  when  her 
sharp  bark  must  have  irritated  him,  there  never  was  an  angry  word  for 
Bouncer.  He  loved  the  dog,  and  was  always  greatly  touched  by  the 
truly  wonderful  devotion  to  her  mistress. 


Charles  Dickens  with  his  Dogs. 


DICKENS   WITH  HIS   CHILDREN.  43 

Dear,  pretty,  dainty,  faithful  little  Mrs.  Bouncer ! 

Then,  there  was  "Dick,"  the  eldest  daughter's  canary,  another  most 
important  member  of  the  household.  After  his  mistress  had  been 
away  from  home,  she,  on  her  return,  would  go  to  the  room  where  Dick 
lived,  and  put  her  head  just  inside  the  door.  At  the  very  sight  of  her, 
the  bird  would  fly  to  the  corner  of  his  cage,  and  sing  as  if  his  little 
throat  would  burst. 

When  this  pet  bird  died,  he  was  buried  in  the  garden,  a  rose-tree 
was  planted  over  his  grave,  and  Charles  Dickens  wrote  his  epitaph  :  — 

This  is  the  grave  of 

Dick, 
The  Best  of  Birds. 
Born  at  Broadstairs  Mids'r.,  185 1. 
Died  at  Gad's  Hill  Place,  14th  Oct.,  1866. 

While  Dick  lived,  cats  were,  of  course,  never  allowed  about  the  house  : 
but,  after  his  death,  a  white  kitten,  called  Williamina,  was  given  to 
one  of  the  family ;  and  she  and  her  numerous  offspring  had  a  happy 
home  at  Gad's  Hill. 

IV. 

Charles  Dickens  was  the  most  delightful  and  genial  of  hosts,  and 
had  the  power  of  putting  the  shyest  people  at  ease  with  him  at  once. 
He  had  a  charm  in  his  manner  peculiarly  his  own,  and  quite  indescrib- 
able. The  charm  was  always  there,  whether  he  was  grave  or  gay, 
whether  in  his  very  funniest,  or  in  his  most  serious  and  earnest,  mood. 

His  punctuality  was  a  remarkable  characteristic,  and  visitors  used 
to  wonder  how  it  was  that  every  thing  was  clone  to  the  very  minute. 
It  is  a  common  saying  now,  in  the  family  of  some  dear  friends,  where 
punctuality  is  not  quite  so  well  observed,  "  What  would  Mr.  Dickens 
have  said  to  this?"  or,  "Ah!  my  dear  child,  I  wish  you  could  have 
been  at  Gad's  Hill  to  learn  what  punctuality  means  !  "  He  was  very 
fond  of  music,  but  not  of  "  classical  "  music  only.  He  loved  national 
airs,  old  tunes,  songs,  and  ballads.  He  was  easily  moved  by  any  thing 
pathetic  in  a  song  or  tune,  and  was  never  tired  of  hearing  his  particu- 
lar favorites  sung  or  played.  He  liked  to  have  music  of  an  evening  ; 
and  duets  used  to  be  played  very  often  for  hours  together,  while  he 
would  read,  or  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 

There  was  a  large  meadow  at  the  back  of  the  garden,  in  which, 
during  the  summer-time,  many  cricket-matches  were  held.     Although 


44  DICKENS   WITH  HIS   CHILDREN. 

never  playing  himself,  Charles  Dickens  delighted  in  the  game,  and 
would  sit  in  his  tent,  keeping  score  for  one  side,  the  whole  day  long. 
He  never  took  to  croquet ;  but,  had  lawn-tennis  been  played  in  the 
Gad's-Hill  days,  he  would  certainly  have  enjoyed  this  game.  He  liked 
"  American  bowls,"  at  which  he  used  constantly  to  play  with  his  male 
guests.  For  one  of  his  "improvements,"  he  had  turned  a  waste  piece 
of  land  into  a.  croquet -ground  and  bowling-green. 

In  the  meadow  he  used  also  to  practise  many  of  his  "readings;" 
and  any  stranger  passing  down  the  lane,  and  seeing  him  gesticulating, 
and  hearing  him  talking,  laughing,  and  sometimes,  it  may  be,  weeping, 
most  surely  would  have  thought  him  out  of  his  mind.  The  getting-up 
of  those  "readings  "  gave  him  an  immense  amount  of  labor  and  fatigue, 
and  the  sorrowful  parts  tried  him  greatly.  For  instance,  in  the  read- 
ing of  "  Little  Dombey,"  it  was  hard  work  for  him  so  to  steel  his  heart 
as  to  be  able  to  read  the  death  without  breaking  down,  or  displaying 
too  much  emotion.  He  often  told  how  much  he  suffered  over  this 
story,  and  how  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  go  through 
with  it,  had  he  not  kept  constantly  before  his  eyes  the  picture  of  his 
own  "  Plorn,"  alive  and  strong  and  well. 

His  great  neatness  and  tidiness  have  already  been  alluded  to,  as 
also  his  wonderful  sense  of  order.  The  first  thing  he  did  every  morn- 
ing, before  going  to  work,  was  to  make  a  circuit  of  the  garden,  and 
then  to  go  over  the  whole  house,  to  see  that  every  thing  was  in  its 
place,  neat  and  orderly.  This  was  also  the  first  thing  he  did  upon  his 
return  home  after  any  absence.  A  more  thoroughly  orderly  nature 
never  existed.  It  must  have  been  through  this  gift  of  order  that  he 
was  enabled  to  make  time,  notwithstanding  any  amount  of  work,  to 
give  to  the  minutest  household  details. 

Before  a  dinner-party,  the  menu  was  always  submitted  to  him  for 
approval ;  and  he  always  made  a  neat  little  plan  of  the  table,  with  the 
names  of  the  guests  marked  in  their  respective  places,  and  a  list  of 
who  was  to  take  who  in  to  dinner.  He  had  constantly  some  "  bright 
idea"  or  other  as  to  the  arrangement  of  the  table  or  rooms. 

He  had  a  strange  aversion  to  saying  good-by,  and  would  do  any 
thing  he  possibly  could  to  avoid  going  through  the  ordeal.  This  feel- 
ing must  have  been  natural  to  him  ;  for,  as  early  as  the  "  Old  Curios- 
ity Shop,"  he  writes,  — 

'•  Why  is  it  we  can  better  bear  to  part  in  spirit  than  in  body,  and,  while  we  have 
the  fortitude  to  act  farewell,  have  not  the  nerve  to  say  it?  On  the  eve  of  long  voy- 
ages, or  an  absence  of  many  years,  friends,  who  are  tenderly  attached,  will  separate 


DICKENS    WITH  HIS    CHILDREN.  45 

with  the  usual  look,  the  usual  pressure  of  the  hand,  planning  one  final  interview  for 
the  morrow,  while  each  well  knows  that  it  is  but  a  poor  feint  to  save  the  pain  of 
uttering  that  one  word,  and  that  the  meeting  will  never  be  !  Should  possibilities  be 
worse  to  bear  than  certainties  ?  " 

So  all  who  love  him,  and  who  know  the  painful  dislike  he  had  to 
that  word,  are  thankful  that  he  was  spared  the  agony  of  that  last,  long 
Farewell. 

Almost  the  pleasantest  times  at  Gad's  Hill  were  the  winter  gather- 
ings for  Christmas  and  the  New  Year,  when  the  house  was  more  than 
full,  and  the  bachelors  of  the  party  had  to  be  "put  up"  in  the  village. 
At  these  times,  Charles  Dickens  was  at  his  gayest  and  brightest ;  and 
the  days  passed  cheerily  and  merrily  away.  He  was  great  at  games  ; 
and  many  of  the  evenings  were  spent  in  playing  at  "  Yes  and  No," 
Proverbs,  Russian  Scandal,  Crambo,  Dumb  Crambo,  —  in  which  he 
was  most  exquisitely  funny,  —  and  a  game  of  Memory,  which  he  par- 
ticularly liked. 

On  New-Year's  Eve,  there  were  generally  other  guests  besides 
those  staying  in  the  house ;  and  the  New  Year  had  to  be  welcomed 
with  due  honors.  Just  before  twelve  o'clock,  everybody  would  assemble 
in  the  hall ;  and  Charles  Dickens  would  open  the  door,  and  stand  in 
the  entrance,  watch  in  hand.  How  many  of  his  friends  must  remember 
him  thus,  and  think  lovingly  of  the  picture,  as  he  waited,  with  a  half- 
smile  on  his  attentive  face,  for  the  bells  to  chime  out  the  New  Year ! 

Then  his  voice  would  break  the  silence  with  "  A  Happy  New  Year 
to  us  all !  "  and,  for  many  minutes,  there  would  be  much  embracing, 
hand-shaking,  and  good-wishing ;  and  the  servants  also  would  come 
up,  and  get  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand  from  the  beloved  "  master." 
Then,  sometimes,  there  would  be  a  country-dance,  in  which  the  host 
delighted,  and  in  which  he  insisted  upon  every  one  joining.  He  never 
allowed  the  dancing  —  and  real  dancing  it  was  too  —  to  flag  for  an 
instant,  but  kept  it  up,  until  even  he  was  tired  and  out  of  breath, 
and  had  at  last  to  clap  his  hands,  and  bring  it  to  an  end.  His  thorough 
enjoyment  was  most  charming  to  witness,  and  seemed  to  infect  every 
one  present. 

One  New-Year's  Day,  at  breakfast,  he  proposed  that  we  should  act 
some  charades,  in  dumb-show,  that  evening.  This  proposal  being  met 
with  enthusiasm,  the  idea  was  put  into  practice  at  once.  The  different 
parts  were  assigned,  dresses  were  discussed,  "  properties "  were  col- 
lected, and  rehearsing  went  on  the  whole  day  long.  As  the  home- 
visitors  were  all  to  take  part  in  the  charades,  invitations  had  to  be  sent 


46 


DICKENS    WITH  HIS   CHILDREN. 


to  the  more  intimate  neighbors  to  make  an  audience,  an  impromptu 
supper  had  to  be  arranged  for,  and  the  day  was  one  of  continual  bustle 
and  excitement,  and  the  rehearsals  were  the  greatest  fun  imaginable. 
A  dear  old  friend  volunteered  to  undertake  the  music,  and  he  played 


Waiting  far  the  New  Year. 

delightfully  all  through  the  acting.  These  charades  made  one  of  the 
pleasantest  and  most  successful  of  the  New-Year's  evenings  ever  spent 
at  Gad's  Hill. 

But  there  were  not  only  grown-up  guests  invited  to  the  pretty, 
cheerful  home.     In  a  letter  to  a  friend,  Charles  Dickens  writes,  — 

"  Another  generation  begins  to  peep  above  the  table.  I  once  used  to  think  what 
a  horrible  thing  it  was  to  be  a  grandfather.  Finding  that  the  calamity  falls  upon  me 
without  my  perceiving  any  other  change  in  myself,  I  bear  it  like  a  man." 


DICKENS    WITH  HIS    CHILDREN.  47 

But,  as  he  so  disliked  the  name  of  grandfather  as  applied  to  him- 
self, these  grandchildren  were  taught  by  him  to  call  him  "  Venerables." 
And,  to  this  day,  some  of  them  still  speak  of  him  by  his  self-invented 
name.  Now,  there  is  another  and  younger  family  who  never  knew 
"Venerables,"  but  who  are  taught  to  know  his  likeness,  and  taught 
to  know  his  books  through  the  pictures  in  them,  as  soon  as  they  can 
be  taught  any  thing,  and  whose  baby  hands  lay  bright  flowers  upon 
the  stone  in  Westminster  Abbey  every  9th  of  June,  and  every  Christ- 
mas Eve.  For,  in  remembrance  of  his  love  for  all  that  is  gay  in 
color,  none  but  the  brightest  flowers  —  and  also  some  of  the  gorgeous 
American  leaves,  sent  by  a  friend  for  the  purpose — are  laid  upon  the 
stone,  making  that  one  spot,  in  the  midst  of  the  vast  and  solemn  build- 
ing, bright  and  beautiful. 

In  a  letter  to  "  Plorn,"  before  his  departure  for  Australia,  Charles 
Dickens  writes,  "  I  hope  you  will  always  be  able  to  say,  in  after-life, 
that  you  had  a  kind  father."  And,  to  this  hope,  each  one  of  his  chil- 
dren can  answer,  with  a  loving,  grateful  heart,  Amen. 

These  reminiscences  are  written  to  show  him,  almost  exclusively, 
in  his  relation  of  father,  and  to  show  him  as  he  was  in  his  own  domes- 
tic circle,  and  in  his  home-life.  In  quoting  my  father's  words,  I  have 
used  the  present  tense,  —  says  or  writes,  —  because  his  words  are  be- 
fore me,  and  are  a  living  reality,  because  his  words  will  be  a  living 
reality  to  generations  yet  to  come. 

So  that  we  cannot  think  of  him  as  dead.  His  spirit  has  walked 
and  does  "walk  abroad  among  his  fellow-men,  and  travel  far  and  wide." 
And  his  own  words  about  death  may  be  lovingly  and  reverently  applied 
to  himself  ;  and  we  may  say,  — 

"  Of  the  loved,  revered,  and  honored  head,  thou  canst  not  turn  one  hair  to  thy 
dread  purposes,  or  make  one  feature  odious.  It  is  not  that  the  hand  is  heavy,  and 
will  fall  down  when  released ;  it  is  not  that  the  heart  and  pulse  are  still,  —  but  that  the 
heart  was  open,  generous,  and  true ;  the  heart  brave,  warm,  and  tender ;  and  the 
pulse  a  man's.  Strike,  shadow,  strike !  and  see  his  good  deeds  springing  from 
the  wound,  to  sow  the  world  with  life  immortal." 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  DICKENS. 


By  JAMES   T.   FIELDS. 

I  ALWAYS  think  of  this  eminent  man  of  genius  as  excelling  in 
many  different  ways.  Sometimes  I  dwell  upon  his  gifts  as  a  great 
writer ;  sometimes  as  a  reader  in  public  of  his  own  works  ;  sometimes 
as  an  amateur  actor  of  plays  ;  sometimes  as  an  orator ;  and  often,  very 
often,  as  the  dearest  and  kindest  of  friends. 

Not  to  have  seen  and  known  him  is  a  deprivation  hardly  to  be  esti- 
mated. There  was  a  tonic  in  the  very  sound  of  his  cheery  voice,  and 
even  dumb  animals  felt  its  magic  when  he  spoke  to  them.  When  at 
Gad's  Hill  (his  delightful  home  in  Kent)  he  used  to  call  the  dogs  for 
a  walk,  it  seemed  as  if  they  would  tumble  him  in  the  dust  with  their 
caresses.  I  have  seen  three  massive  Newfoundlanders  set  upon  him 
at  once,  and  almost  devour  him  with  affectionate  recognition.  I  re- 
member a  horse  he  was  accustomed  to  drive  in  a  basket-wagon,  who 
seemed  to  laugh  when  he  came  out  of  the  door,  and  said  a  few  hearty 
words  of  greeting  to  the  animal  on  a  summer  morning. 

There  was  that  welcome  quality  of  unmistakable  cheerfulness  in 
the  tone  of  Dickens's  voice,  which  falls  upon  the  ear  of  man  or  beast  as 
if  a  kind  of  fellowship  were  implied  in  it.  He  always  "  shook  hands  " 
with  the  mastiffs  and  terriers  who  resided  on  Gad's  Hill,  as  if  they 
were  intimately  related  to  him,  and  were  just  as  much  members  of  the 
family  as  his  own  people  inside  the  premises. 

Hut  his  felicity  rose  highest  when  he  was  doing  something  to  make 
children  happy.  In  that  department  of  human  endeavor,  I  do  not 
believe  he  ever  had  a  superior ;  and  it  was  a  treat  indeed  to  see  him 
thus  employed  on  special  occasions. 

About  Christmas  time  he  came  out  very  strong  in  that  line.  He 
used  to  begin  his  preparations  a  week  or  two  before  the  festival  came 
round,  and  devote  himself  to  the  business  with  untiring  zeal.  He 
48 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF  DICKENS.  49 

would  then  shut  himself  up  for  days,  getting  together  all  sorts  of  sur- 
prises for  the  young  people,  who,  with  his  own  children,  year  after 
year,  made  a  Christmas  carnival  in  his  pleasant  house. 

He  used  to  study  up  all  sorts  of  conjurer's  tricks  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  his  little  guests,  and  so  became  quite  an  adept  in  causing 
pennies  and  teaspoons  to  disappear  down  his  own  throat,  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs to  burn  without  hurting  them,  and  apples  and  oranges  to  fly 
off  the  table  into  impossible  pockets.  The  games  and  charades  he 
invented  for  Christmas  and  New-Year's  were  without  parallel  in  their 
fun  and  absurdity.  There  was  no  let-up  to  his  drollery  in  this  way,  for 
his  invention  was  endless. 

He  was  a  capital  dancer ;  and  to  see  him  cutting  Christmas  capers 
to  music  in  a  merry  reel,  surrounded  by  children,  was  a  wonderful  sight 
indeed.  Sometimes  he  would  imitate  eccentric  birds  and  animals  with 
a  nimble  facetiousness  that  would  send  young  people  rolling  on  the 
floor  in  paroxysms  of  laughter  and  delight. 

His  mad  pranks  in  this  way  often  recalled  Mr.  Peggotty's  remark 
in  "  David  Copperfield  :  "  "  It's  my  opinion,  you  see,  as  this  was  all 
along  of  my  havin'  played  with  Em'ly  so  much  when  she  was  a  child, 
and  havin'  made  believe  as  we  was  Turks,  and  French,  and  sharks,  and 
every  variety  of  forriners,  —  bless  you,  yes  ;  and  lions  and  whales,  and 
I  don't  know  what  all !  when  she  wasn't  no  higher  than  my  knee." 

It  seems,  indeed,  sometimes,  as  if  the  object  of  Dickens's  life  was 
to  make  other  people  contented  and  happy.  There  was  not  a  poor 
sick  child  or  a  cripple  within  five  miles  of  Gad's  Hill  who  had  not  felt 
the  tenderness  of  his  bounty  and  the  compassion  of  his  presence.  He 
was  one  of  those  ever-ready  almoners  who  are  never  taken  by  surprise 
when  want  looks  imploringly  up  from  the  roadside  or  in  a  hovel.  You 
never  heard  him  say,  "  I  have  no  small  change  about  me  ;  "  for  he  took 
care  to  be  supplied  every  morning,  before  he  went  out  of  his  study, 
with  something  substantial  for  the  poor  and  the  suffering.  His  house 
was  a  kind  of  free  apothecary's  shop  for  all  the  sick  people  of  the 
neighborhood. 

I  have  said  these  things  about  Charles  Dickens  here,  so  that,  when 
you  read  his  books,  my  young  friends,  you  may  know  what  manner  of 
man  it  was  who  wrote  them,  how  kind  and  charitable  he  was,  how 
anxiously  he  sought  to  share  his  happier  lot  with  those  on  whom  the 
sun  of  prosperity  never  shone,  and  how  he  was  willing  to  take  the 
trouble  to  lend  a  helping  hand  wherever  there  was  need  of  his  friendly 
aid. 


50  RECOLLECTIONS   OF  DICKENS. 

He  was  born  on  the  7th  of  February,  1 8 1 2,  and  was  christened  Charles 
John  Hougham  Dickens;  but  he  soon  dropped  the  superfluous  "John 
Hougham,"  as  too  high-sounding  for  his  simple  taste.  He  once  said, 
if  he  were  a  fashionable  doctor,  he  might  think  differently  about  the 
matter. 

When  a  school-boy,  he  won  the  hearts  of  all  his  mates  by  his  many 
acts  of  disinterested  kindness.  Among  the  first  books  he  read  and 
rejoiced  in  were  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  and 
"The  Arabian  Nights."  These  stirred  his  imagination,  and  kept  alive 
his  fancy  years  after  he  had  ceased  to  be  a  boy. 

He  became  a  Parliamentary  reporter  when  a  lad  of  eighteen,  and 
invented  a  short-hand  of  his  own  to  enable  him  to  "  take  down  "  the 
speeches  with  accuracy.  He  could  write  out  his  notes,  holding  the 
paper  on  the  palm  of  his  hand,  as  he  galloped  along  through  the  dead 
of  night  up  to  the  printing-office ;  and  the  great  orators  of  that  day 
used  to  declare  that  young  Dickens  was  the  only  man  who  reported 
their  speeches  correctly.  The  truth  is,  he  corrected  their  verbiage, 
and  set  their  thoughts  in  a  better  style  than  many  of  them  knew  how 
to  employ.  Dr.  Johnson  did  the  same  thing  when  he  reported  for  the 
London  press. 

In  the  year  1835  Dickens  dropped  his  first  manuscript,  a  sketch 
called  "  Mrs.  Joseph  Porter,"  into  a  dark  letter-box,  up  a  dark  court  in 
Kent  Street.  He  once  described  to  me  his  sensation  when  his  first 
effusion  came  out  in  print,  —  how  he  trembled  as  he  turned  into  a  cer- 
tain entry,  and  read  it  there,  because  his  eyes  were  so  blinded  with  joy 
and  pride  that  they  could  not  bear  the  street. 

And  I  remember,  also,  that  he  told  me  he  had  never  got  over  the 
excitement  of  first  seeing  in  print  any  thing  he  had  written  for  the 
press.  I  was  with  him  once  in  "All  the  Year  Round"  office  (long 
after  he  had  become  famous),  when  a  proof  of  one  of  the  "  Uncommer- 
cial Traveller  "  papers  was  sent  up  to  him. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  shall  I  never  get  over  the  thrill  which 
accompanies  a  sight  of  myself  in  type  ? " 

I  have  seen  him  more  than  once  laugh  wildly  over  a  new  and 
humorous  chapter  of  some  story  he  was  printing  for  the  public. 

He  was  one  of  the  most  methodical  men  I  ever  knew.  He  began 
very  early  to  be  careful  and  painstaking.  When  a  small  boy,  and  earn- 
ing his  own  living  by  a  disagreeable  employment,  he  would  never 
anticipate  his  means,  but  make  his  weekly  salary  last  through  its 
allotted  period.     He  would  wrap  the  small  sum  he  received  for  work 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  DICKENS.  5 1 

into  six  little  parcels,  each  parcel  containing  the  same  amount,  and 
labelled  with  a  different  day. 

He  never  neglected  any  thing.  "  It  is  my  habit,"  was  a  frequent 
mode  of  expression  with  him,  when  asked  how  he  found  time  to  accom- 
plish this  or  that  seemingly  out-of-the-way  duty.  Speaking  with  him 
one  morning  in  his  study  about  will,  persistence,  memory,  and  other 
qualities  necessary  to  achievement  in  life,  he  took  down  from  the  shelf 
one  of  his  favorite  books,  Sydney  Smith's  "  Sketches  of  Moral  Philoso- 
phy," a  series  of  lectures  delivered  at  the  Royal  Institution,  and  read 
to  me  a  memorable  passage  with  great  earnestness  and  feeling.  The 
volume  was  Dickens's  constant  companion  in  his  many  journeys  about 
the  world  ;  and  when  he  landed  in  America,  a  few  years  ago,  he  showed 
it  to  me,  saying,  "  You  see,  my  old  friend  has  come  over  with  me." 

The  key  to  Dickens's  motive  as  a  novelist  may  be  found  most 
eloquently  embodied  in  his  preface  to  "  Oliver  Twist."  Whoever  reads 
that  earnest  prelude  to  the  story  will  get  at  the  intention  of  the  author 
in  all  his  life-work,  which  was  to  set  forth  the  principle  of  good,  and 
show  how  it  survives  through  every  adverse  circumstance,  and  surely 
triumphs  at  last. 

What  a  charming  tribute  Thackeray  paid  to  Dickens  when  he  asked 
if  there  was  ever  a  better  charity  sermon  preached  in  the  world  than 
"The  Christmas  Carol,"  and  when  he  says,  "All  children  ought  to 
love  Dickens.  I  know  one,  who,  when  she  is  happy,  reads  '  Nicholas 
Nickleby  ; '  when  she  is  unhappy,  reads  '  Nicholas  Nickleby  ; '  when 
she  is  tired,  reads  '  Nicholas  Nickleby  ; '  when  she  is  in  bed,  reads 
'Nicholas  Nickleby;'  when  she  has  nothing  to  do,  reads  'Nicholas 
Nickleby ; '  and,  when  she  has  finished  the  book,  —  reads  '  Nicholas 
Nickleby'  over  again." 

On  the  9th  of  June,  every  year,  Dickens's  grave  is  covered  with 
flowers.  On  that  day,  in  1870,  the  great  and  noble  spirit  passed  on  to 
join  the  immortal  band  of  England's  worthiest  sons  ;  and  ever  since, 
on  the  anniversary  of  his  upward  flight,  many  hearts  are  drawn  to  the 
consecrated  ground  which  holds  his  ashes.  Flowers,  not  unmingled 
with  affectionate  tears,  are  strewn,  from  morning  till  night,  above  his 
resting-place  ;  and  it  is  a  beautiful  tribute  to  his  loving,  pitying  nature, 
that  the  toil-worn  hands  of  the  poor  and  friendless  are  seen  scattering 
their  humble  offerings,  on  that  memorial  day,  around  the  hallowed  spot 
in  Westminster  Abbey. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THACKERAY. 


By   CHARLES   H.   BRAINARD. 

ONE  afternoon,  in  the  winter  of  1853,  as  I  was  standing  in  my 
office,  I  heard  heavy  footsteps  on  the  stairs  leading  from  the 
street.  Presently  the  door  was  opened  ;  and  Charles  Sumner  walked 
in,  followed  by  William  M.  Thackeray,  a  man  of  such  lofty  stature  and 
proportionate  stoutness  that  he  actually  made  the  Massachusetts  sena- 
tor look  comparatively  small. 

The  walls  of  my  room  were  lined  with  portraits  of  notable  men  and 
women,  who  had  sat  for  them  at  my  request ;  and,  as  Thackeray  exam- 
ined them,  he  frequently  expressed  his  delight,  and  declared  that  he 
had  never  before  seen  such  excellent  specimens  of  the  daguerrian  art. 

At  this  time  he  had  never  sat  before  the  camera  for  his  portrait, 
although  often  importuned  to  do  so  in  England  and  America  ;  but, 
when  I  expressed  a  wish  to  add  his  picture  to  the  collection  he  was 
then  admiring,  he  instantly  replied,  — 

"  Oh,  yes  !     I  must  have  a  shy  at  this." 

As  he  had  visited  Washington  for  the  purpose  of  giving  his  lectures 
on  "The  English  Humorists,"  his  stay  there  was  protracted  :  and  he 
repeated  his  visit  to  the  gallery  several  times,  and  gave  the  promised 
sittings  ;  the  results  of  which  were  most  expressive  likenesses,  some  of 
which  were  afterwards  reproduced  in  engravings. 

Thackeray  spent  much  of  his  time  in  Washington  with  Mr.  Sum- 
ner, with  whom  he  visited  the  numerous  objects  of  interest  in  and 
about  the  city.  On  entering  the  rotunda  of  the  Capitol,  he  passed 
hurriedly  by  the  paintings  which  fill  the  panels,  until  he  came  to 
Trumbull's  "  Declaration  of  Independence,"  before  which  he  paused, 
and,  after  looking  at  it  in  silence  for  several  minutes,  turned  to  Mr. 
Sumner,  and  remarked,  — 

"  This  is  worth  all  the  rest :  this  is  history." 
52 


RECOLLECTIONS   OE  THACKERAY. 


53 


As  he  was  an  excellent  art-critic,  being  himself  a  gifted  draughts- 
man, and  had  devoted  much  time  to  the  study  and  practice  of  art,  he 
must  have  seen  many  examples  of  painting  and  sculpture  in  Washing- 
ton that  could  hardly  fail  to  suggest  unfavorable  comments  ;  but  on 
such  works  he  would  invariably  bestow  the  charity  of  his  silence. 


As  he  passed  by  the  equestrian  statue  of  Jackson,  by  Clark  Mills, 
in  company  with  Mr.  Sumner,  he  never  betrayed,  by  word  or  look,  a 
consciousness  of  its  existence ;  and  this  silence  Mr.  Sumner  pro- 
nounced, as  he  related  the  incident,  one  of  the  most  wonderful  exhi- 
bitions of  politeness  he  ever  witnessed. 

Thackeray  was  evidently  a  keen  observer  of  human  nature,  and  a 
great  student  of  character  as  expressed  in  the  faces  of  those  with 
whom  he  casually  came  in  contact. 


54  RECOLLECTIONS   OF  THACKERAY. 

I  once  met  him  at  one  of  the  Saturday-evening  receptions  of  Dr. 
Bailey,  editor  of  "The  National  Era,"  where  his  tall  and  majestic  fig- 
ure made  him  the  most  conspicuous  person  present.  On  this  occasion, 
he  had  a  few  pleasant  words  for  those  who  were  presented  to  him,  but 
appeared  lost  in  thought  most  of  the  time,  as  he  stood  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  and  scanned  the  faces  of  those  who  moved  around  him. 

I  afterwards  met  him  at  the  National  Hotel  in  one  of  the  public 
rooms,  which  are  crowded  at  night  by  Congressmen,  and  strangers  gen- 
erally. He  was  quietly  sitting  upon  a  settee,  which  was  partly  occu- 
pied by  others,  and  gazing  intently  upon  the  moving  throng,  who  were 
evidently  ignorant  of  the  name  and  character  of  him  who  thus  surveyed 
them. 

He  gave  his  lectures  on  "The  English  Humorists"  to  large  audi- 
ences in  Carusi's  saloon.  The  interest  of  these  lectures  was  in  their 
matter,  and  in  their  author,  but  not  in  their  manner  of  delivery  ;  for 
he  was  utterly  wanting  in  those  graces  of  oratory  which  add  so  much 
to  the  pleasure  of  listening  to  the  reading  of  a  genuine  literary  per- 
formance. He  was  closely  confined  to  his  manuscript,  which  he  read 
in  a  monotone ;  yet  he  was  always  audible,  and  he  commanded  the 
closest  attention  of  his  auditors. 

Before  he  left  Washington  for  the  South,  his  lectures  on  "  The 
English  Humorists  "  were  announced  by  the  Harpers  in  their  list  of 
forthcoming  publications.  While  conversing,  one  morning,  concerning 
his  intended  tour  through  the  Southern  States,  I  alluded  to  this  an- 
nouncement, and  inquired  if  the  volume  containing  his  lectures  would 
be  published  before  he  had  fulfilled  his  engagements  to  deliver  them. 

"  Bless  you,  no  !  "  replied  he.  "  Do  you  think  I'd  rip  open  my 
goose  ?  "  These  lectures  attracted  as  large  audiences  in  every  South- 
ern city,  where  they  were  read,  as  they  did  in  the  North ;  and,  shortly 
after  the  completion  of  his  tour,  he  returned  to  England,  fully  satisfied 
with  the  financial  results  of  his  visit  to  the  United  States. 

In  the  winter  of  1855  he  returned  to  this  country,  and  made  a 
second  lecturing-tour ;  the  subject  of  his  lectures  being  "The  Four 
Georges,"  which  were  more  successful,  in  a  lucrative  point  of  view, 
than  "The  English  Humorists."  In  England  they  were  less  popular 
than  they  were  in  America,  the  free  and  impartial  manner  in  which  he 
discussed  the  lives  and  characters  of  his  royal  subjects  having  made 
them  distasteful  to  those  who  believed  in  the  divine  right  of  kings. 

I  had  several  brief  interviews  with  him  at  Washington  during  this 
recent  visit,  and  at  one  time  enjoyed  in  anticipation  the  pleasure  of 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  THACKERAY.  55 

journeying  with  him  through  the  Southern  States  as  his  companion 
and  business  agent,  having  been  recommended  to  him  for  that  position 
by  Rev.  William  H.  Milburn,  the  blind  preacher  and  lecturer,  with 
whom  I  had  made  a  similar  tour  a  few  months  before. 

This  led  to  a  correspondence  concerning  the  proposed  trip,  but  it 
was  finally  decided  that  the  arrangements  already  made  for  him  in  the 
cities  where  he  had  engagements  would  render  the  service  of  a  special 
agent  unnecessary  ;  and  the  project  was  accordingly  abandoned,  and 
much  to  my  regret. 

As  he  was  about  leaving  Philadelphia  for  Baltimore,  he  addressed 
me  the  following  note,  which,  though  relating  exclusively  to  a  business 
matter,  can  hardly  fail  to  be  interesting,  from  the  fact  that  but  few  of 
his  letters  have  ever  been  printed  :  — 

Jan.  5,  Lapierre  H. 
My  dear  Sir,  —  I  thank  you  and  Mr.  Milburn  for  the  offer  which  you  make  me. 
I  have  friends  at  Richmond,  Charleston,  and  Savannah,  and  a  half  engagement  to  a 
society  in  New  Orleans.  Afterwards,  I  am  engaged  by  societies  at  St.  Louis  and 
Cincinnati,  so  that  I  think  I  shall  hardly  want  a  manager  for  my  career.  I  shall  be 
at  Baltimore  on  Tuesday  (for  Wednesday  and  Thursday) :  and  if  you  think,  after  the 
above  knowledge  regarding  my  plans,  that  we  could  do  any  business  together,  perhaps 
you  could  find  time  for  a  run  over  from  Washington ;  but  I  don't  at  present  see  how 
I  need  any  aid,  except  that  of  the  faithful  Englishman  who  takes  charge  of  me. 
Believe  me, 

Your  very  faithful  servant, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 

This  note  was  evidently  written  with  a  quill  pen,  and  was  remark- 
able for  the  distinctness  with  which  every  letter  was  formed,  and  for 
the  straightness  of  the  lines,  the  paper  being  unruled.  In  these  par- 
ticulars, it  resembled  a  printed  page,  the  letters  being  scarcely  larger 
than  those  made  by  ordinary  type.  For  the  clearness  of  his  hand- 
writing, and  general  neatness  of  his  manuscripts,  Thackeray  was  noted 
among  his  literary  associates.  His  first  draughts  were  rarely  altered  ; 
and  his  copy  went  to  the  printer's  without  interlineations,  blots,  or 
erasures. 

A  few  days  before  he  started  on  his  Southern  tour,  I  met  him,  by 
appointment,  at  the  National  Hotel  in  Washington.  On  entering  his 
room,  I  found  him  seated  on  his  trunk,  and  gazing  earnestly  at  a  fire 
which  had  evidently  just  been  kindled  in  the  grate.  He  wore  his  hat 
and  overcoat,  and  the  expression  of  his  countenance  was  far  from 
cheerful. 

He  was  apparently  cold  and  weary.     Although  there  was  no  lack 


56  RECOLLECTIONS   OF  THACKERAY. 

of  chairs  in  the  room,  he  invited  me  to  a  seat  on  the  trunk,  where  we 
sat  for  nearly  an  hour,  during  which  time  he  spoke  of  his  pleasant 
experiences  in  Philadelphia  and  Baltimore,  and  of  his  proposed  trip  to 
the  South,  from  which  he  seemed  to  anticipate  much  pleasure  and 
profit. 

He  returned  to  England  in  the  summer  of  1856,  and  from  that 
time,  till  his  death,  was  actively  engaged  in  literary  labors.  In  1857 
he  was  a  candidate  for  a  seat  in  Parliament,  but  failed  of  an  election. 
At  about  this  time  the  first  number  of  "  The  Virginians  "  was  issued, 
and  continued  to  be  published  in  monthly  parts  till  its  completion  in 
October,  1859,  when  he  became  editor  of  the  "  Cornhill  Magazine," 
the  publication  of  which  was  hailed  with  delight ;  for  he  was  now  in 
the  very  zenith  of  his  popularity,  and  his  writings  were  read  with 
avidity  by  all  classes  of  people. 

Over  one  hundred  thousand  copies  of  the  new  magazine  were 
quickly  sold,  and  there  was  but  little  falling  off  in  the  sale  of  sub- 
sequent issues.  His  connection  with  this  magazine  continued  till  his 
death,  which  occurred  on  the  24th  of  December,  1863. 

His  departure  was  sudden  and  unexpected.  He  had  been  ill  for 
twenty-four  hours,  and  at  an  hour  before  midnight  was  left  by  his 
valet,  whom  he  wished  "  Good-night  "  as  he  went  out  of  the  room. 
At  nine  o'clock  on  the  following  morning,  the  valet  entered  the  cham- 
ber, and  discovered  that  the  great  novelist  was  dead. 


A   DAY   WITH 

MRS.    DINAH  MULOCK  CRAIK, 

AUTHOR    OF    "JOHN    HALIFAX." 


By   SARAH    M.   DAWSON. 

A  BRIGHT  fire  burned  in  the  open  grate  ;  and  on  the  edge  of  the 
large  brass  fender,  which  was  drawn  farther  from  the  coals  than 
usual,  was  a  row  of  little  feet.  The  coals  gave  the  only  light,  and 
threw  dim  shadows  along  the  bare  floor  of  the  large  classroom,  across 
the  table  in  the  centre,  to  the  row  of  chairs  against  the  opposite  wall. 

The  boys  to  whom  those  little  feet  belonged,  sat  on  what  is  called 
a  form.  In  most  English  schools  the  boys  sit  on  high  forms,  without 
backs  ;  and  the  children  cannot  rest  their  feet  on  the  floor.  These  boys 
sat  on  chairs  at  the  tables  during  some  of  their  class-hours,  and,  dur- 
ing other  recitations,  with  their  seats  moved  back  against  the  wall. 
The  few  forms  kept  in  the  large  room  for  occasional  use  were  always 
preferred  before  the  open-grate  fire,  because  so  many  boys  could  crowd 
together ;  and  the  row  of  little  feet  along  the  fender,  showed  how  cosey 
the  company  was. 

We  had  been  talking  about  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Craik. 

"Will  she  be  any  thing  like  Miss  March  ?  "  asked  one  of  the  little 
company,  leaning  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  resting  his  chin  in  his 
hands. 

A  tumult  of  "Yes"  and  "No"  followed,  and  a  great  deal  of  boy- 
logic  for  and  against  Mrs.  Craik's  resemblance  to  Ursula  March  ;  for 
these  boys  had  just  finished  the  reading  of  "John  Halifax,  Gentleman," 
and  knew  the  beautiful  character  of  Ursula. 

"  Is  she  pretty  ? "  again  asked  my  young  friend,  pleased  that  he  had 
roused  such  an  excitement  among  his  mates. 

57 


58  AfRS.  DINAH  MULOCK   CRAIK. 

"  Miss  March  couldn't  write  stories  if  she  was  pretty,"  said  one  of 
the  boys,  with  a  very  positive  air  and  an  animated  face,  though  with 
eyes  closed,  as  if  the  lids  were  held  together  for  mischief.  There  were 
many  dreamy  eyes  and  closed  lids  in  that  group.  The  bright  firelight 
troubled  none  of  them,  for  this  is  a  picture  in  a  London  boarding-school 
for  the  blind. 

Mrs.  Craik  invited  the  pupils  of  the  "  Royal  Normal  College  for  the 
Blind  "  to  visit  in  her  home  twice  that  season ;  and  my  conversation 
with  these  children,  who  were  among  the  visitors,  had  been  previous 
to  one  of  these  visits.  The  first  time,  I  was  much  touched  to  see  the 
care  she  had  taken  to  invite  a  large  number  of  friends,  and  enlist  their 
sympathies ;  so  that  every  blind  person,  old  and  young,  had  some  see- 
ing-friend  to  supply  his  wants,  and  entertain  him. 

The  second  visit  was  in  the  month  of  July ;  and,  as  Mrs.  Craik 
had  promised,  we  had  her  almost  alone.  I  will  tell  you  of  this  visit 
only,  for  you  must  care  far  more  for  this  good  and  loving  woman  than 
for  the  friends  and  neighbors  she  has  drawn  around  her. 

From  Upper  Norwood  we  went  by  train  to  Bromley,  only  a  few 
miles  distant.  A  number  of  carriages  had  been  sent  to  the  station  by 
Mr.  Craik,  but  they  did  not  accommodate  all  the  party  of  thirty-eight. 
I  walked  with  the  few  who  were  left,  rather  than  wait  for  a  carriage  to 
return.  We  could  not  have  chosen  a  lovelier  road  than  the  lane  we 
soon  turned  into,  which  leads  from  Bromley  road  into  Shortland's  Grove. 

The  trees  were  very  tall  elms,  with  branches  interlacing  overhead. 
The  high  wooden  fence  on  each  side  was  covered  with  English  ivy ; 
and  the  green  archway  kept  turning  and  winding,  giving  us  ever-chan- 
ging vistas.  This  lane  is  a  favorite  place  for  listening  to  the  nightin- 
gales. "  Corner  House,"  where  the  lane  enters  the  Shortland's  road, 
is  the  home  of  Mrs.  Craik. 

We  found  those  who  had  gone  in  carriages  already  feeling  quite  at 
home  in  the  hay-field  opposite  the  house.  It  was  full  of  mounds  of  dry 
hay,  just  ready  for  the  barn  ;  and  Mrs.  Craik  had  planned  to  let  the 
blind  boys  and  girls  loose  in  a  hay-field,  as  a  rare  treat. 

"  Now  go,  boys,"  she  said,  "  and  see  if  you  can  find  a  hay-stack, 
and  level  it  for  a  nice  seat  for  the  ladies." 

They  could  meet  with  no  harm,  and  had  rare  fun,  shouting  and 
running  about,  till  a  loud,  "Oh!  I've  got  it!"  announced  success  in 
coming  upon  one  of  the  miniature  stacks  ;  and  all  gathered  to  the 
signal,  and  began  pulling  down  the  hay.  They  made  hay  ropes,  and 
played  in  the  hay  to  their  heart's  content,  till  Mrs.  Craik  sat  down  in 


MRS.   DINAH  MULOCK   CRAIK. 


59 


the  middle  of  a  stack  the  boys  had  nearly  levelled  ;  and  a  large  group 
gathered  on  the  hay  close  around  her. 

Then  sweet-voiced  Jessie  from  Liverpool  sang,  "  Ye  Banks  and 
Braes  o'  Bonnie  Doon,"  while  Mrs.  Craik  sang  alto  with  her.  It  was 
very  sweet,  and  they  sang  slowly  and  with  feeling  straight  through  the 

homely  words. 

Then  Mrs.  Craik  sang  the  solo  of  "  Hard 
Times,"  and  the  pupils  joined  her  in  the 
chorus.     All    sang    "  My    Old    Kentucky 


The  Home  of  Mrs.  Craik. 


Home  ; "  and  Mrs.  Craik  knew  the  words  of  these  ballads,  so  that  she 
could  prompt  the  few  Americans  of  the  party. 

Later,  men  came  from  the  barn  with  a  large  wagon  ;  and,  as  each 
hayload  was  ready,  the  boys  were  piled  on  top,  amidst  a  great  deal  of 
shouting  and  glee,  for  a  ride  to  the  barn.  Mrs.  Craik  walked  over,  to 
direct  that  the  loads  should  not  be  high,  and  that  safety,  with  the 
greatest  amount  of  freedom,  should  be  given  to  each  guest.  By  the 
time  every  boy  had  had  a  ride,  a  dinner-bell  sounded  from  the  house 
opposite  ;  and  all  went  across  with  the  hostess. 


60  MRS.  DINAH  MULOCK   CRAIK. 

The  house  occupies  a  corner-lot,  and  is  some  distance  from  the 
country-road  in  front,  and  from  the  charming,  shady  lane,  which  runs 
along  the  left  as  you  face  the  house.  The  lower  story  is  of  red  brick  ; 
while  the  rest,  up  to  the  Gothic  roof,  is  finished  in  red  tiles,  over- 
lapping. On  the  right  is  a  study  and  reception-room ;  on  the  left  a 
long  drawing-room  ;  and,  across  the  end  of  the  hall,  the  dining-room, 
extending  to  the  right. 

As  we  left  the  reception-room,  and  stepped  out  into  the  large  hall 
in  the  centre  of  the  house,  Jimmy  Neal,  one  of  the  blind  boys,  slipped 
his  hand  into  mine,  and  said,  "Tell  us  what  the  walls  are  made  of." 
He  had  put  his  hand  out  to  guide  himself,  and  felt  the  smooth  porcelain 
tiles.  So  I  took  several  of  the  boys  to  the  side  of  the  hall,  and  let 
them  find  the  lines  where  the  tiles  joined,  and  feel  over  the  whole 
smooth  surface,  while  I  told  them  the  colors  of  the  conventional  pat- 
tern. Then  they  studied  the  tessellated  marble  floor,  which  was  made 
of  pieces  nearly  as  small  as  the  tiles  in  the  wall.  Johnnie  Scorah  had 
a  funny  way  of  expressing  satisfaction, — a  low,  prolonged  66  ;  and  his 
beaming  face  was  bright  with  interest  in  all  that  he  saw  through  his 
sensitive  finger-tips. 

Mrs.  Craik  was  in  the  hall  with  us,  and  was  much  interested  in 
having  the  children  see  every  thing.  By  her  side,  clinging  to  her 
hand,  was  the  only  child  of  the  household,  a  little  adopted  daughter. 

As  the  house  is  in  Elizabethan  style,  the  wooden  beams  of  the 
ceilings  are  exposed  in  all  the  rooms.  The  walls  are  thick,  and  long 
ottomans  fill  the  window-recesses.  The  panes  of  glass  are  tiny  and 
diamond-shaped.  In  the  dining-room,  across  the  fireplace,  is  carved  in 
the  stone,  the  motto,  "  East  or  west,  hame  is  best."  A  true  home  it 
seemed,  and  we  greatly  enjoyed  our  long-continued  stay  in  the  quaint 
dining-room.  The  table  was  more  than  full  ;  and  chairs  were  placed 
near  the  window-ottomans,  so  that  little  groups  enjoyed  themselves 
there  as  much  as  at  the  table. 

Mrs.  Craik's  friends  were  pleasantly  surprised  to  see  the  easy  and 
familiar  use  of  all  the  nice  table-appointments,  for  the  blind  are  not 
so  well  trained  in  any  other  school  in  Great  Britain. 

At  our  first  visit,  we  had  gone,  after  dinner,  into  the  drawing-room 
to  meet  a  large  number  of  guests  whom  Mrs.  Craik  had  invited  to  call 
while  the  children  were  there  ;  and  we  had  had  music,  and  some  very 
agreeable  conversation.  Mr.  Craik,  in  a  black  velvet  home-coat,  had 
presided  at  dinner,  and  been  genial  and  pleasant  as  he  moved  about 
among  his  guests. 


MRS.   DINAH  MULOCK   CRAIK.  6 1 

This  second  visit  was  a  gala-time  for  the  children  ;  and,  after  din- 
ner, the  whole  company  went  again  to  the  hay-field,  and  spent  a  happy 
half-hour,  before  the  signal  was  given  for  all  to  sit  clown  u^>on  the  hay- 
mounds,  and  partake  of  some  delicious  strawberries  and  cream.  Mrs. 
Craik  said  she  had  watched  the  strawberry -beds  jealously  for  several 
days,  to  secure  enough  of  the  fairest  and  sweetest  for  her  blind  friends. 

It  was  as  pretty  and  characteristic  a  picture  of  Mrs.  Craik  as  one 
could  wish,  to  see  her  benevolent  face  turned  thoughtfully  and  lovingly 
toward  each  guest  in  turn,  as  she  sat  in  the  midst,  and  felt,  no  doubt, 
glad  that  she  had  given  them  one  glad  day. 

Soon  we  were  on  our  way  back  to  Norwood  ;  and  when  the  boys 
sat  again  on  the  form,  and  the  quiet  little  feet  made  a  close  row  along 
the  fender,  as  they  did  many  an  evening  during  the  school-year  that 
followed,  they  talked  of  Mrs.  Craik,  and  no  longer  asked,  "  Is  she 
pretty  ?  "  but  all  said,  — 

"  Isn't  she  just  lovely !  " 


A  MEETING  WITH  GEORGE   ELIOT. 


By   MRS.  JOHN   LILLIE. 

IT  is  now  some  years  since  a  friend  wrote,  asking  me  to  come,  quite 
informally,  on  a  certain  afternoon,  to  hear  some  music  practised. 
The  music  lingered  long  in  my  mind,  for  it  was  played  by  a  quartet 
of  the  greatest  musicians  in  the  world,  and  was  of  itself  marvellous ; 
but  the  company  impressed  me  even  more  vividly. 

Only  a  few  people  were  present.  The  large,  quaintly  furnished 
room  seemed  half  empty  as  I  entered,  and  took  my  place  near  one  or 
two  musical  friends ;  but,  almost  at  once,  I  was  struck  by  the  appear- 
ance, manner,  and  voice  of  a  lady  sitting  close  beside  me,  —  a  large 
woman,  apparently  about  forty-five  years  of  age,  with  wonderfully 
sweet  eyes,  a  massive  brow,  soft  chestnut  hair,  and  features  irregular 
and  somewhat  masculine,  but  fairly  illumined  by  an  expression  of  in- 
telligence and  peculiarly  sympathetic  sweetness. 

She  was  richly  dressed,  with  some  disregard  to  the  detail  of  fashion, 
but  with  an  air  of  dignified  splendor  in  the  materials,  as  well  as  in 
the  cut  of  her  gown  and  cloak,  in  the  fashion  of  her  hat,  and  even 
in  the  exquisite  and  rare  old  lace  which  fell  about  her  neck  and 
wrists. 

Looking  at  her  impressive  face  and  figure,  I  thought  her  the  most 
striking  person  I  had  ever  seen.  Yet  no  picture,  no  pen-portrait,  could 
do  her  justice;  for  who  could  describe  that  inspired  look  when  she 
spoke,  or  give  the  peculiar  charm  of  her  deep,  melancholy  eyes,  in 
which  sometimes  her  rare,  sweet  smile  lingered,  deepening  the  kindly 
look,  yet  never  banishing  that  curious  pathetic  expression,  which  was 
as  of  one  who  had  looked  into  the  very  depths  of  human  sadness,  and 
come  back  to  the  lighter  visions  of  the  world  with  a  melancholy  never 
to  be  cast  aside  ? 
62 


A   MEETING    WITH   GEORGE  ELIOT 


63 


I  could  not  keep  away  from  the  fascination  of  this  strange,  dignified 
lady,  who  sat  for  some  time  a  little  apart,  but  with  her  eyes  often  eager- 
ly upon  the 
musicians. 
Presently, 
a  chance 
phrase  led 
us  into  con- 
versation. 

I  felt  my- 
self eager 
to  catch 
every  sylla- 
ble this  un- 
known lady 
spoke,  for 
the  charm 
of  her  rich, 
sweet  voice 
warmed  the 
most  insig- 


nificant phrases  of  our 
conversation.  When 
something  peculiarly  fine 
occurred  in  the  first  music 
performed,  I  remember 
her  turning,  flashing  that 
rare,  soft  smile  upon 
me ;  and,  from  that  sym- 
pathetic moment,  we 
talked  freely  of  the  music 
about  us,  and  also  the  music  of  the  then  melodious  London  season. 
It  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  meet  many  amateurs  whose  musi- 
cal instincts  were  as  keen  as  their  knowledge  was  fine ;    but  I   have 


64  A  MEETING    WITH  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

never  met  any  person,  who,  in  a  few  words,  could  say  what  she  did  of 
the  very  fibre  of  the  musician's  art.  As  she  talked,  with  the  utmost 
simplicity,  but  showing,  not  only  absolute  technical  knowledge,  but  the 
daintiest  appreciations,  I  listened,  wondering  and  debating  in  my  mind 
who  she  could  be.  Surely,  I  said  to  myself,  it  must  be  some  famous 
artiste,  with  whose  face  and  voice  I  am  unfamiliar.  Almost  at  that 
moment,  the  voice  of  a  young  friend,  just  behind  me,  whispered,  — 

"  Do  you  know  you  are  talking  to  George  Eliot  ? " 

I  then  realized  why  it  was  I  had  been  involuntarily  paying  such  hom- 
age to  the  woman's  presence.  Though  I  saw  her  often  later,  the  abid- 
ing association  in  my  mind  will  be  of  the  "  George  Eliot "  of  that 
tuneful  day, — the  brilliant,  quiet,  magnetic  woman,  whose  face  re- 
flected her  feelings  with  half  shadows,  half  lights,  yet  who  seemed  so 
strong  in  her  personality  that  it  was  impossible  for  a  moment  to  forget 
the  woman  in  the  genius. 

People,  even  in  London,  used  to  wonder  that  so  few  ever  saw 
George  Eliot.  Her  home-life  was  not  exactly  secluded.  She  lived  in 
a  large,  old-fashioned  stone  house,  called  "  The  Priory,"  set  in  a  gar- 
den, and  with  a  wall  and  gateway  over  which  green  things,  and  the 
color  of  lilacs  and  almond-blossoms,  used  to  be  seen  in  the  early  sum- 
mer. And  then  she  entertained  a  great  many  of  her  friends,  having 
informal  receptions  in  which  she  was  the  presiding  spirit,  though  she 
always  seemed  to  try  to  lead  others  to  shine  in  conversation  or  musi- 
cal performance.  She  did  much  in  charity  :  she  gave  freely  to  those 
who  were  in  need  among  the  struggling  literati.  And,  although  averse 
to  the  society  of  strangers,  her  manner  was  unfailingly  sweet  and  kind. 

Every  one  who  reads  her  books  must  know  how  hard  she  worked, 
and  I  used  to  hear  of  how  laboriously  pages  of  "  Middlemarch  "  were 
written.  She  would  go  over  and  over  every  sentence,  sometimes  doing 
no  more  than  a  page  a  day,  and  altering  whole  scenes  because  a  char- 
acter described  in  them  did  not  quite  satisfy  her  ideal  of  it.  No  one, 
I  believe,  ever  worked  so  purely  for  the  love  of  her  art  ;  for  she  needed 
neither  fame  nor  fortune.  She  was  rich.  Her  novels  had  been  always 
successful,  "  Middlemarch  "  alone  bringing  her  one  hundred  thousand 
dollars. 

When  her  books  were  finished,  the  manuscript  was  always  hand- 
somely bound,  and  put  on  one  of  the  library-shelves. 

Music  was  an  absorbing  passion  with  her.  She  played  brilliantly, 
but  her  technical  knowledge  was  even  better  than  her  power  of  per- 
formance.    She  played  only  for  a  few  chosen  friends.     Her  music  was 


A  MEETING    WITH  GEORGE  ELIOT.  65 

so  intensely  part  of  herself,  that  she  could  not  give  it  freely ;  and  it 
had  a  wonderful  effect  upon  her.  After  either  performing,  or  listening 
to,  fine  music,  she  was  frequently  completely  unnerved,  unable  to  com- 
mand herself,  and  more  likely  to  break  down  into  tears  than  to  talk 
calmly.  But  she  enjoyed  writing  about  harmony.  No  one  ever  drew 
the  musical  nature  better  than  she  did  in  the  musician  of  "  Daniel 
Deronda." 

Her  life  was  spent  sometimes  in  journeying  upon  the  Continent,  but 
chiefly  in  London,  her  home.  She  was  always  to  be  seen  at  the  best 
concerts.  How  well  I  remember  her  noble-looking  face  and  figure 
Monday  after  Monday  at  St.  James  Hall  ;  and  here  and  there,  wher- 
ever good  music  was  to  be  heard,  one  was  sure  of  seeing  her.  At  her 
house,  famous  musicians  used  to  congregate.  She  was  fond  of  walking 
up  and  down  her  long,  beautiful  drawing-room,  while  some  one  played 
in  the  twilight.  She  would  rarely  speak  at  such  times.  She  listened 
intently,  but  silence  was  her  applause. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS. 


By  WILLIAM   H.   RIDEING. 

ANY  one  who  knows  the  history  of  the  British  constitution,  and 
how  jealously  it  is  guarded  ;  how  flexible  and  yet  consistent  it 
is  ;  how  effectually  it  secures  the  liberty  and  dignity  of  the  subject ; 
how  precious  it  is  to  all  classes  ;  and  the  long  years  of  political  strife 
of  which  it  is  the  fruition,  —  must  feel  a  thrill  as,  coming  down  through 
Whitehall  from  that  busy  centre  of  London,  Charing  Cross,  he  stands 
for  the  first  time  before  the  Houses  of  Parliament. 

The  buildings  themselves  are  of  great  beauty  and  size,  covering 
nearly  eight  acres.  They  are  in  the  Tudor-Gothic  style  ;  and  their 
outlines  are  so  broken  and  relieved  by  towers,  spires,  and  buttresses, 
and  fretted  masonry,  that  they  have  no  appearance  of  cumbrousness. 

Abutting  on  them  is  the  famous  abbey,  under  the  lofty  roof  of 
which  the  illustrious  dead  of  England  are  buried.  At  the  northern 
end  is  the  great  clock-tower  in  which  the  hours  are  struck  on  a  bell 
that  can  be  heard  eight  miles  away. 

But  it  is  not  the  buildings  that  appeal  to  our  veneration.  It  is  the 
principles  and  the  history  with  which  they  are  associated.  They  bring 
to  mind,  and  seem  to  embody,  the  long  chain  of  events  by  which  the 
character  of  the  government  has  been  formed,  and  by  which  the 
supremacy  of  the  crown  has  been  adjusted  to  permit  the  sovereignty 
of  the  people. 

Nominally  living  under  a  monarchy,  the  English  subject  has  all  the 
personal  freedom  a  republic  could  give  him  ;  and,  though  the  sanction 
of  the  Queen  and  the  peers  is  necessary  in  law-making,  it  is  his  repre- 
sentatives in  the  House  of  Commons  who  control  the  destinies  of  the 
country.  The  Queen  and  the  lords  may  reject  a  measure  passed  by 
them  ;  but  such  a  course  is  unusual,  and  is  looked  upon  with  suspicion 
and  emphatic  disfavor. 

66 


THE  HOUSE   OF  COMMONS.  67 

Though  in  spirit  and  intention  the  House  of  Commons  is  modern, 
it  holds  to  many  ancient  and  inconvenient  customs  in  transacting  its 
business ;  and,  to  an  American,  some  of  the  formalities  are  likely  to 
be  amusing  when  the  awe  of  his  first  impression  has  worn  off.  The 
incongruity  of  these  hereditary  observances  becomes  all  the  more 
striking,  as  it  is  mixed  with  an  occasional  levity  of  behavior,  and  a  boy- 
ishness of  antics,  among  the  members,  which  probably  would  not  be 
tolerated  by  any  other  legislative  body  in  the  world. 

But  the  Commons  have  many  privileges.  The  public  cannot  de- 
mand a  place  in  their  assemblies ;  and,  though  a  spectator  may  be 
admitted  by  courtesy,  he  can  be  expelled  at  any  moment  by  a  mem- 
ber's calling  the  attention  of  the  Speaker  to  the  fact  that  there  are 
"strangers  in  the  gallery." 

As  a  conspicuous  gallery  is  usually  occupied  by  strangers,  the 
Speaker  may  not  find  any  information  in  the  announcement ;  but  it  is 
practically  a  notification  to  him  that  the  gallery  must  be  cleared. 

The  House  is  chary  of  its  favors  ;  and  the  space  for  visitors  is  small, 
admission  to  it  being  obtained  either  through  a  member  of  Parliament 
or  the  ambassadors  of  foreign  courts.  Mr.  Lowell  has  the  privilege 
of  issuing  two  cards  every  day ;  and  if,  instead  of  two,  he  had  a  score, 
or  more,  he  would  not  have  enough  to  meet  the  applications  made  for 
them  at  the  Legation. 

Having  secured  the  much-coveted  pass,  however,  we  cross  the 
Palace  Yard,  and  enter  Westminster  Hall.  The  light  falls  softly 
through  the  windows,  and  across  the  grand  interior,  in  slanting  beams. 
Under  this  dark  roof  of  chestnut,  with  its  span  of  seventy-four  feet, 
the  Earl  of  Strafford  and  Charles  the  First  were  tried. 

At  the  end  of  the  hall  we  enter  a  corridor  decorated  with  large 
frescos  ;  and,  at  a  glass  door,  a  policeman  accosts  us,  to  inquire  whether 
we  have  a  pass  to  the  gallery.  This  is  the  end  of  the  tether,  as  far  as 
the  unfavored  public  is  concerned ;  but  the  card  indorsed  by  the 
"Envoy  Extraordinary  and  Minister  Plenipotentiary  of  the  United 
States,"  which  is  Mr.  Lowell's  full  official  title,  admits  us  through  the 
door  into  a  lofty  rotunda,  where,  if  any  gratification  is  to  be  had  from 
the  experience,  we  may  mingle  with  the  chosen  representatives  of  the 
English  people. 

Our  pass  is  scrutinized  by  an  officious  door-keeper  sitting  in  a 
wicker  chair,  who  has  held  his  position  so  long,  and  has  been  so 
humored  by  the  members,  that  he  carries  himself  with  greater  self- 
exaltation  than  any  of  them,  and  who  reminds  us  of  that  door-keeper 


68  THE  HOUSE   OF  COMMONS. 

in  Washington,  who  described  himself  as  a  "  biger  man  than  old 
Grant."  By  him  the  pass  is  sent  to  the  sergeant-at-arms,  who  counter- 
signs it ;  and,  when  we  have  presented  it  to  another  door-keeper,  we 
are  shown  into  a  narrow,  winding,  prison-like  stairway,  with  stone  steps 
and  walls,  at  the  head  of  which  we  come  into  the  gallery  of  the  House 
itself. 

The  building  is  not  as  well  lighted,  not  as  well  ventilated,  not  as 
large,  nor  as  well  adapted  to  its  purposes,  as  the  Chambers  of  Con- 
gress at  Washington.  But  the  effect  upon  the  visitor  is  more  impres- 
sive. The  light  becomes  mellow  in  pouring  through  the  Gothic 
windows  and  their  colored  borders,  in  which  the  motto  is  repeated, 
"God  and  my  Right."  The  upholstery  is  of  a  dark  material ;  and  the 
ceiling,  all  the  woodwork,  and  the  walls,  are  dark  also,  as  in  a  very  old 
church.  The  building,  in  form  and  atmosphere,  indeed,  is  strongly 
ecclesiastical. 

It  is  nearly  square.  All  the  floor  is  reserved  for  the  members,  who 
sit  on  long,  cushioned  benches,  extending  parallel  along  the  hall,  and 
divided  by  a  wide  aisle,  which  is  known  as  the  gangway.  At  the  head 
of  the  gangway  is  the  Speaker's  chair  ;  and  the  benches  on  the  right- 
hand  side  are  occupied  by  the  governing  party,  while  those  on  the  left 
are  occupied  by  the  opposition.  The  benches  below  the  gangway  are 
in  possession  of  the  independent  members,  who  give  allegiance  neither 
to  the  Conservatives  nor  the  Liberals. 

At  some  height  from  the  floor  is  a  narrow  gallery,  which  extends 
all  round  the  building.  That  part  over  the  Speaker's  chair  is  given  to 
the  reporters  of  the  newspapers  ;  and  the  accommodations  here  are  so 
limited,  that  a  score  or  more  wealthy  and  influential  journals  are  repre- 
sented by  one  man.  A  similar  space  at  the  other  end  is  devoted  to 
strangers  admitted  by  the  members'  orders  ;  and  the  side-galleries 
are  intended  for  the  members  of  the  various  legations,  or  members  of 
the  other  House. 

To  any  one  in  the  strangers'  gallery,  a  dark  vault  can  be  seen  over 
the  reporters'  desks,  screened  by  an  iron  scroll :  and,  as  we  gaze  at 
this,  some  shadowy  faces  become  visible,  which  seem  to  belong  to  a 
smoky  picture,  until  they  move  ;  and  then  we  see  that  they  are  alive. 
The  enclosure  up  there  is  the  ladies'  gallery  ;  and  though  it  has  neither 
light  nor  air,  and  little  can  be  heard  in  it,  places  are  sought  for  by 
more  than  can  be  admitted. 

It  is  not  easy  to  understand  why,  but,  instead  of  transacting  its 
business  in  business  hours,  the  House  of  Commons  does  not  assemble 


THE  HOUSE    OF  COMMONS. 


69 


until  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  it  continues  in  session  until 
three  or  four  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

The  proceedings  are  opened  by  the  entrance  of  two  gentlemen 
in  court -suits  of  black,  —  black  small-clothes,  black  silk  stockings, 
shoes  with  steel  buttons,  exquisitely  frilled  shirts,  and  dainty  swords 
in  black  sheaths, — one  of  whom  bears  the  heavy  gold  mace  which  em- 
blemizes  the  power 
of  the  Speaker, 
and  which  Crom- 
well contemptu- 
ously called  "that 
bauble." 

Following 
these  is  the  Speak- 
er himself  in  wig 
and  gown,  with 
his  train-bearer,  his 
chaplain,  and  his 
secretary.  An 
usher  then  informs 
the  persons  in 
the  lobby  that 
"  Mr.  Speaker  is 
at  prayers  ;  "  and 
there  is  a  lull  in 
the  conversation, 
until  the  same 
voice  announces, 
"  Mr.  Speaker  is 
in  the  chair,"  when 
the  members  take 
their  seats,  doffing  their  hats  if  it  is  necessary  to  pass  the  Speaker, 
and  putting  them  on  again  immediately  afterwards,  and  wearing  them 
through  the  proceedings,  except  when  addressing  that  official.  They 
sit  with  folded  legs  and  folded  arms,  and  in  any  attitude  which  is  most 
comfortable  to  them. 

The  members  of  the  cabinet  and  the  ministry  have  the  benches 
nearest  to  the  Speaker's  right  hand  ;  and,  half  an  hour  having  been 
given  for  the  presentation  of  petitions,  "question  time"  comes,  when 
the  various  ministers  are  expected  to  be  in  their  places,  to  answer  any 


JO  THE  HOUSE   OF  COMMONS. 

questions  as  to  the  departments  under  their  control.  No  matter  what 
hostile  criticism  a  speech  may  contain,  one  member  invariably  refers 
to  another  as  "  the  honorable  member,  if  he  is  a  commoner ;  as  "  the 
honorable  member,  my  noble  lord,"  if  he  is  a  person  of  title ;  and  as 
"the  gallant  and  honorable  member,"  if  he  is  an  officer  of  the  army  or 
navy,  the  personal  names  never  being  used ;  and  this  punctilious  cour- 
tesy of  address  often  savors  of  irony. 

One  honorable  member  inquires  if  it  is  true  that  a  lady  of  the  Sul- 
tan's harem,  who  sought  refuge  in  the  British  Embassy,  and  was  given 
up,  has  been  strangled  as  an  accomplice  in  a  palace  conspiracy.  The 
Under  Secretary  of  State  for  Foreign  Affairs  assures  him  that  such  is 
not  the  case  ;  that  the  lady  is  well  and  happy,  and  about  to  be  married. 

Another  honorable  member  is  informed  by  the  same  official,  in 
answer  to  a  question  as  to  whether  a  British  subject  in  Chili  has  been 
treated  with  indignity,  that  a  gun-boat  has  been  despatched  to  exact 
reparation. 

This  Under  Secretary,  Sir  Charles  Dilke,  is  one  of  the  youngest, 
most  popular,  and  most  promising,  members  of  the  government,  of 
whom  it  is  predicted,  that,  within  ten  years,  he  will  stand  at  the  head 
of  his  party.  He  is  about  thirty-eight  years  of  age,  and  is  all  the 
more  interesting  to  Americans  as  he  is  an  avowed  Republican,  who 
believes  in  a  federation  of  English-speaking  men,  of  which  the  United 
States  shall  supply  the  nucleus  and  the  model. 

Sitting  near  him  is  the  Marquis  of  Hartington,  the  Secretary  of 
State  for  India,  —  a  handsome,  aristocratic-looking  gentleman,  who 
speaks  with  little  fervor,  except  when  adopting  a  tone  of  scorn ;  and 
in  the  same  neighborhood  is  Mr.  Forster,  the  Secretary  for  Ireland, 
who  speaks  in  a  quiet  yet  forcible  manner,  and  looks  pensive  and  care- 
worn. The  premier,  Mr.  Gladstone,  is  away,  recovering  from  an  attack 
of  illness  ;  but  here  is  the  venerable  John  Bright  ;  the  brilliant  and 
combative  Home  Secretary,  Vernon  Harcourt ;  and  the  blind  Professor 
Fawcett,  the  Postmaster-General. 

On  the  opposite  bench  we  see  Sir  Stafford  Northcote,  who,  since 
Mr.  Disraeli's  elevation,  has  been  the  leader  of  the  opposition  in  the 
Commons,  —  a  large,  well-formed  gentleman,  with  a  quickness  of  glance 
and  manner. 

The  interest  of  the  debates  depends  on  the  matter  under  consid- 
eration, for  the  average  orator  of  the  House  of  Commons  is  not  usually 
capable  of  vitalizing  any  subject  he  may  have  in  hand  ;  though  the 
members  we  have  mentioned  are  all  brilliant. 


THE  HOUSE    OF  COMMONS.  7 1 

Before  adjournment,  a  great  many  prolix,  ill-balanced  speeches  are 
made  in  the  sing-song,  hesitating  manner  that  is  so  common  among 
Englishmen.  Those  who  are  not  speaking  are  usually  aware  of  the 
defects  of  their  associate  who  is,  and  are  not  backward  in  expressing 
their  impatience  and  disapprobation  by  groans  and  derisive  laughter. 

At  three  in  the  morning,  it  is  often  a  wonder  how  many  words  have 
been  spoken,  and  how  little  has  been  done  ;  and  yet  the  members,  who 
endure  the  misery  of  sitting  up  all  night,  receive,  unlike  the  American 
Congressman,  no  salary,  and  no  opportunities  for  political  patronage. 


FOUR  FAMOUS  SCENES  IN  THE  HOUSE 
OF   COMMONS. 


By  HENRY  W.  LUCY. 
I. 

THE   EARL  OF    BEACONSFIELD. 

ON  the  1 2th  of  August,  1876,  the  British  House  of  Commons  was 
not  a  very  lively  place  to  look  upon.  It  was  the  last  working- 
day  of  a  session  that  had  been  prolonged  and  exhaustive.  The  East- 
ern Question  was  passing  through  its  acutest  phase. 

The  civilized  world  had  been  shocked  by  the  atrocities  in  Bulgaria. 
Mr.  Gladstone,  awakening  from  his  temporary  lethargy,  had  lifted  his 
voice  in  burning  denunciation  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  was 
presently  to  carry  the  fiery  cross  through  towns  and  counties. 

Mr.  Disraeli,  tempted  by  the  felicity  of  the  phrase,  in  a  fatal  mo- 
ment sneered  at  the  report  of  the  outrages  as  "coffee-house  babble," 
and  had  with  great  difficulty,  always  pushed  onward  by  facts,  been 
obliged  to  retreat  from  that  position,  and  to  face  the  reality. 

The  Liberal  opposition  in  the  House  of  Commons,  recovering  from 
the  depression  that  weighed  them  down  in  1874,  had  been  active  and 
persistent.  The  Irish  members  had  been  increasingly  aggressive. 
There  was  war  abroad,  and  turmoil  at  home.  For  ministers,  the  only 
bright  gleam  on  the  horizon  was  the  fact  that  the  session  was  at  last 
over,  and  that  for  five  months  they  would  have  peace  from  Parliamen- 
tary interpellation. 

On  this  particular  night  the  House  was  nearly  empty,  and  alto- 
gether dull.  The  Appropriation  Bill  had  reached  its  third  stage.  This 
dealt  with,  there  remained  only  the  ceremony  of  prorogation.  Under 
72 


SCENES  IN  THE  BOUSE    OF  COMMONS.  73 

ordinary  circumstances,  the  House  would  have  been  emptier  still :  but 
the  Liberals  had  made  up  their  minds  for  a  final  fling  ;  and,  stopping 
short  of  challenging  the  government  to  a  division,  they  put  up  Mr. 
Evelyn  Ashley  to  move  an  amendment  calling  attention  to  ministerial 
laches  in  respect  to  the  outrages  in  Bulgaria.  The  premier  sat  through 
the  debate  with  folded  arms,  knees  crossed,  and  head  bent  down,  pre- 
senting an  aspect  of  one  whose  thoughts  were  far  away,  and  for  whom 
the  ceaseless  flow  of  talk  from  the  benches  opposite  had  not  the 
slightest  interest.  Mr.  Forster  brought  his  heavy  artillery  to  bear 
upon  the  government,  and  was  answered  with  painstaking  verbosity  by 
Mr.  Bourke,  Under  Secretary  of  State  for  Foreign  Affairs. 

Others  took  part  in  the  debate ;  and  towards  nine  o'clock  Sir  Wil- 
liam Harcourt  rose,  and,  after  his  manner,  addressed  the  House  at 
considerable  length. 

It  is  possible,  that,  till  now,  the  premier  did  not  intend  to  reply. 
The  speeches  were  what  Mr.  Carlyle  called  "thrice-boiled  colewort." 
They  had  been  served  up  over  and  over  again  through  the  long  ses- 
sion, and  there  was  nothing  new  or  useful  to  be  said.  But  it  would 
not  do  for  the  session  to  close  with  the  opposition  having  the  last 
word ;  and,  when  Sir  William  Harcourt  resumed  his  seat,  Mr.  Disraeli 
rose,  and  appeared  at  the  table. 

He  spoke  for  half  an  hour ;  but  the  speech,  though  an  ever  memor- 
able one,  did  not  approach  the  level  of  his  ordinary  successes.  The 
talk  from  the  other  side  had  dealt  closely  with  facts  and  figures  ;  and 
these  had,  through  a  long  and  brilliant  career,  always  been  Mr.  Dis- 
raeli's chiefest  difficulties.  But  the  charges  formulated  were  very 
serious,  — were  calculated  to  impress  the  public,  and  must  be  met.  So, 
with  dull  manner  and  level  voice,  the  premier  went  through  or  round 
the  points  raised,  and  attempted  to  vindicate  his  government. 

Here  and  there  the  speech  was  lightened  by  playful  attacks  on  Sir 
William  Harcourt,  "who,"  he  observed  with  great  gravity,  "will  be  in 
the  future  one  of  our  greatest  statesmen." 

Speaking  on  questions  of  foreign  policy,  Mr.  Disraeli  always  fin- 
ished up  with  a  tag,  —  some  bristling  words  calculated  to  call  forth  a 
cheer  from  good  Conservatives.  "  Our  duty  is,  at  this  critical  mo- 
ment," he  said,  raising  his  voice,  and  puffing  out  his  cheeks,  and  beat- 
ing the  air  with  his  hands,  "  to  maintain  the  Empire  of  England ;  nor 
will  we  ever  agree  to  any  step  that  may  obtain  for  a  moment  compara- 
tive and  false  prosperity  that  hazards  the  existence  of  the  Empire." 

These  —  though,  at  the  time,  not  half   a  dozen  of   the    men  who 


74  SCENES  IN  THE  HOUSE   OF  COMMONS. 

heard  them  were  aware  of  the  fact  —  were  the  last  words  spoken  in 
the  House  of  Commons  by  Benjamin  Disraeli.  The  speech  itself  was 
so  evidently  unpremeditated,  that  there  could  scarcely  be  any  design 
in  the  choice  of  the  concluding  sentence.  Yet  it  is  a  remarkable  co- 
incidence, that  the  very  last  word  uttered  by  the  great  minister  at  the 
table  where  he  had  had  so  many  triumphs,  was  "  empire ; "  and,  of  all 
words  in  the  English  language,  that  was  the  one  held  in  his  highest 
favor. 

For  the  maintenance  and  extension  of  the  British  Empire,  he  had, 
since  he  reached  power,  worked  and  planned  and  risked  and  plotted. 
He  had  made  his  queen  an  empress  ;  and,  knowing  he  would  never 
more  lift  his  voice  in  the  House  of  Commons,  he  sat  down  with  the 
word  empire  on  his  lips. 

It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock  when  Mr.  Disraeli  resumed  his  seat, 
late  for  the  last  working-day  of  the  session.  The  Appropriation  Bill 
passed  its  ultimate  stage,  and  members  flocked  out.  There  remained 
only  some  formal  business  to  be  accomplished,  and  the  session  to  be 
over,  save  for  the  empty  ceremony  of  prorogation.  Amidst  the  buzz 
of  conversation,  Mr.  Disraeli  rose,  and  strolled  down  the  House. 

His  usual  custom  was  that  of  all  ministers,  to  avail  himself  of  the 
private  key  which  gave  him  ingress  and  egress  at  the  door  behind  the 
Speaker's  chair.  Now  the  premier  walked  down  the  floor  of  the  House 
between  the  two  camps,  and,  turning  before  he  reached  the  bar,  made 
a  low  obeisance  to  the  Speaker.  He  stood  a  moment,  and  gazed  round 
the  House.  What  thoughts  must  have  crowded  upon  his  mind,  already 
occupied  with  the  momentous  secret,  that,  on  the  following  morning, 
was  to  break  upon  an  astonished  world ! 

Forty  years  ago  he  had  first  entered  the  House,  and  presently 
made  that  famous  speech  in  which  he  foretold  the  coming  of  the  time 
when  the  jeering  throng  "should  hear  him."  Many  with  whom  he 
lived  and  fought  had  long  ago  vanished.  Peel,  Hume,  O'Connell, 
Palmerston,  Russell,  Brougham,  Cobden,  all  were  gone.  Gladstone, 
with  whom  the  later  and  more  successful  portion  of  his  life  had  been 
a  protracted  duel,  was  not  present  now  to  see  him  leave. 

The  House  was  emptying  fast.  The  Speaker  and  the  clerks  at  the 
table  were  busied  about  small  bills,  anxious  only  to  get  done,  and  go 
home.  Mr.  Disraeli  turned  around,  walked  out ;  and  no  one  looking 
on  knew  that  one  of  the  most  momentous  episodes  in  the  annals  of 
Parliament  was  complete,  and  that  one  of  the  two  most  familiar  figures 
in  the  House  had  gone  forth,  never  to  return. 


SCENES  IN  THE  HOUSE    OF   COMMONS. 


75 


Benjamin  Disraeli  blossomed  into  the  Earl  of  Beaconsfield  amid 
surroundings  worthy  of  the  occasion.  He  was,  of  course,  forthwith 
gazetted  Earl,  and  took  his  title  and  his  station.  But  he  did  not  ap- 
pear in  public  till  the  opening  of  Parliament  in  February  of  the  follow- 
ing year.  The  Queen,  delighting  to  honor  her  favorite  minister, 
announced  her  intention 
of  opening  Parliament  in  /f^  'C 

person.  j    \P^\U 

At  two  o'clock  the 
ceremony  was  to  take 
place ;  but,  an  hour  ear- 
lier, a  brilliant  assem- 
bly was  gathered  in  the 
solemn  light  that  falls 
through  windows  richly 
dight  upon  the  floor  of 
the  House  of  Lords.  On 
occasions  when  the  Queen 
opens  Parliament  in  per- 
son, noble  lords  chival- 
rously cede  their  places 
to  their  wives  and  daugh- 
ters. Save  the  front  row 
of  benches  on  either  hand, 
the  floor  of  the  House  was 
covered  with  ladies;  and 
they  filled  the  galleries 
running  around  the  walls 
•of  the  chamber,  like  a 
garland  of  flowers.  The 
bishops,  who  usually  sit 
in  all  the  glories  of  lawn 
to  the  right  of  the  wool- 
sack, had  abandoned  their  position  in  favor  of  the  foreign  ministers, 
who,  with  their  orders  and  sashes,  formed  a  glittering  mass  of  color. 
First  to  come  were  the  members  of  the  Chinese  legation,  looking  as  if 
they  had  stepped  off  the  panel  of  a  tea-chest. 

In  the  front  row  of  European  diplomatists  the  tall  form  of  Count 
Miinster  towered  head  and  shoulder  above  his  fellows,  among  whom 
were  the  representatives  of  Russia,  Italy,  and  Spain.     The  Japanese 


Earl  of  Beaconsfield. 


76  SCENES  IN  THE  HOUSE   OF  COMMONS. 

and  the  Persian  ministers  occupied  seats  on  the  second  row.  Mr. 
Pierrepoint,  the  American  minister,  sat  conspicuous  by  the  absolute 
plainness  of  his  dress.  In  a  crowded  assembly  of  diplomatists,  he  was 
the  only  man  who  did  not  wear  uniform,  or  display  jewelled  orders. 

Just  before  two  o'clock  the  Lord  Chancellor,  preceded  by  the  mace, 
entered,  and  took  his  seat  on  the  woolsack.  After  sitting  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  a  messenger  conveyed  a  signal  to  his  lordship,  who  imme- 
diately arose,  and  left  the  House. 

A  whisper  arose  that  the  Queen  was  coming ;  but  it  was  not  the 
rose,  though  something  that  lived  very  near  it.  All  eyes  turned  toward 
the  door,  and  beheld  the  Prince  of  Wales  appear,  leading  the  princess. 
With  a  rustling  sound,  the  ladies,  who  had  hitherto  sat  with  opera- 
cloaks  covering  their  shoulders,  with  one  accord  threw  them  off,  and 
rose  to  their  feet,  diamonds  and  rubies  flashing  as  if  the  mines  of 
Golconda  had  been  suddenly  uncovered. 

The  prince  wore  the  ugly  red  robes  of  a  peer  of  the  British  Par- 
liament, and  seated  himself  on  the  chair  to  the  right  of  the  throne  ; 
the  princess  seating  herself  as  well  as  was  possible  on  the  uncomfort- 
ably high  woolsack,  with  her  face  toward  the  throne,  and  her  back  to 
the  throng.  Hardly  had  the  noble  lords  and  ladies  reseated  themselves 
after  receiving  the  heir-apparent  and  the  princess,  when  a  sound  of 
far-off  trumpets  announced  the  arrival  of  the  Queen. 

First  came  the  pursuivant  and  the  heralds,  clad  in  gorgeous  cloth 
of  gold.  Immediately  after  strode  a  personage  in  a  red  cloak  tipped 
with  ermine,  bearing  aloft  a  jewelled  scabbard.  There  was  a  fixed 
solemnity  on  the  face,  and  an  expression  of  impenetrable  depth  that 
seemed  familiar.  Looking  again,  there  was  no  mistaking  the  identity. 
This  was  Benjamin,  Earl  of  Beaconsfield.  With  eyes  bent  on  the 
ground,  well-measured  step,  and  sword  rigidly  upheld,  the  newest  re- 
cruit to  the  House  of  Lords  solemnly  walked  forward,  and  took  up  his 
position  on  the  left  of  the  throne. 

Then  came  the  Queen,  followed  by  the  Marquis  of  Winchester, 
bearing  the  Cap  of  Maintenance  ;  while  the  Lord  Chancellor  took  up 
his  position  on  the  right  hand  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  ready,  when  the 
time  came,  to  serve  his  sovereign  by  reading  her  speech. 

At  a  signal  from  the  Queen,  the  lords  and  ladies,  who  had  been 
dutifully  standing,  resumed  their  seats  ;  and  the  messenger  was  dis- 
charged to  summon  the  faithful  Commons.  A  long  and  awkward 
pause  followed,  during  which  all  eyes  were  centred,  not  upon  the 
Queen,  but  upon  the  figure  on  the  left  of  the  throne. 


SCENES  IN  THE  BOUSE    OF   COMMONS.  7? 

Lord  Beaconsfield  bore  this  ordeal  as  he  had  stood  many  others. 
Motionless  he  remained  by  the  side  of  the  Queen,  unfalteringly  bear- 
ing aloft  the  sword,  and  with  no  more  expression  on  his  face  than  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  show  in  the  House  of  Commons  when  Mr. 
Gladstone  had  been  fervently  denouncing  his  policy,  or  convincingly 
confuting  his  arguments.  The  ceremony  did  not  occupy  many  min- 
utes ;  and,  when  it  was  over,  Lord  Beaconsfield  turned  as  on  a  pivot, 
and,  still  holding  the  sword  aloft,  marched  out  before  the  Queen,  doubt- 
less grateful  that  it  was  over,  and  that  Benjamin  Disraeli  had  been 
properly  introduced  to  his  peers  as  the  Earl  of  Beaconsfield. 


II. 

THE   EXPULSION    OF   THE   IRISH    MEMBERS. 

On  Thursday,  the  4th  of  February,  1881,  the  House  of  Commons 
met  under  circumstances  of  extraordinary  excitement. 

At  nine  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  previous  day,  a  continuous 
sitting,  forty-one  hours  long,  had,  by  an  action  of  the  Speaker  that  will 
forever  remain  memorable  in  the  history  of  Parliament,  been  brought 
to  an  abrupt  conclusion.  Parliament  had  been  summoned  a  month 
earlier  than  usual. 

As  was  stated  in  the  Queen's  speech,  the  social  condition  of  Ire- 
land had  assumed  an  alarming  character.  Agrarian  crimes  were  mul- 
tiplied far  beyond  the  experience  of  recent  years.  The  administration 
of  justice  had  been  frustrated,  and  an  extended  system  of  terror  had 
been  established,  which  paralyzed  the  exercise  of  private  rights  and 
the  performance  of  civil  duties. 

To  meet  this  condition  of  affairs,  a  bill  for  the  protection  of  life 
and  property  in  Ireland  had  been  brought  in  at  the  earliest  possible 
moment.  This  had  been  made  as  late  as  possible  by  the  tactics  of  the 
Irish  members,  who  ingeniously  extended  debate  on  the  address. 

On  the  1st  of  February  the  House  was  still  discussing  the  motion 
for  leave  to  introduce  the  Protection  Bill,  a  stage  of  a  measure  which, 
in  ordinary  circumstances,  is  purely  formal.  Now  it  had  been  resisted 
for  many  days. 

At  midnight,  on  the  first  day  of  February,  the  subject  having  been 
under  discussion  practically  through  three  weeks,  the  customary  motion 
was  made  for  the  adjournment.     But  the  patience  of  the  House  was 


78  SCENES  IN  THE  HOUSE    OF  COMMONS. 

now  exhausted ;  and  uproarious  cheering  greeted  the  announcement 
quietly  made  by  Mr.  Gladstone,  that  further  motions  for  adjournment 
would  be  resisted,  and  the  division  on  the  main  question  taken  at  the 
current  sitting. 

What  this  meant  every  one  knew,  and  members  on  both  sides 
quietly  prepared  for  the  struggle.  The  Irish  members  were  thirty-five 
strong.  Against  them  was  the  whole  House,  full  four  hundred  strong, 
as  was  shown  when  divisions  were  taken.  Argument  had  long  been 
abandoned  on  either  side  :  now  the  issue  was  plainly  one  of  physical 
force.  The  question  was  no  longer  who  had  the  better  reason,  but 
who  the  stronger  constitution,  and  the  greater  capacity  for  sitting  up 
all  night. 

From  darkness  to  daylight  the  House  sat.  Noon  found  either  Mr. 
Biggar,  Mr.  O'Donnell,  Mr.  Parnell,  or  some  other  patriot,  on  his  feet, 
wearily  saying  over  again  what  had  been  said  a  hundred  times. 

The  air  of  the  House  was  hot  and  heavy,  and  over  all  hung  a 
feeling  of  lassitude  and  infinite  weariness.  Motions  for  adjournment 
succeeded  each  other  in  faithful  regularity.  Sometimes  variety  was 
introduced  by  moving  that  the  House  be  counted. 

At  midnight  Sir  Stafford  Northcote  rose,  and  demanded  that  the 
deputy  speaker  should  "name  "  Mr.  Parnell,  who  then  happened  to  be 
on  his  legs.  Mr.  Lyon  Playfair  hesitating,  the  Conservative  leader, 
followed  by  all  his  colleagues  on  the  front  bench,  and  something  like 
half  a  hundred  members  from  both  sides  of  the  House,  hotly  rose,  and 
strode  forth,  shaking  from  off  his  feet  the  dust  of  a  House  where  such 
doings  were  permitted. 

At  nine  o'clock  on  Wednesday  morning  the  House  was  still  sitting. 
All  night  long  the  babble  had  continued,  with  more  or  less  volume  of 
sound,  according  as  passion  was  momentarily  raised,  or  remained  dead 
under  the  weight  of  sleep  and  infinite  weariness. 

Now,  at  nine  o'clock,  some  flux  of  life  pulsated  through  the  cham- 
ber. The  relays  had  begun  to  come  in,  fresh  from  bed  and  bath  and 
breakfast.  The  men  who  had  borne  the  heat  and  weariness  of  the 
night,  shook  themselves  together,  and  yawned,  and  made  for  the  door. 
But,  reaching  the  lobby,  they  came  back  again  with  quickened  step  and 
freshened  vigor. 

Something  was  going  to  happen.  No  one  quite  knew  what ;  but 
with  the  quick  intelligence  which,  at  particular  crises,  runs  through 
the  House  of  Commons  like  an  electric  shock,  every  one  was  certain 
that  momentous  events  were  at  hand. 


SCENES  IN  THE  HOUSE    OF   COMMONS. 


79 


Mr.  Gladstone,  just  then  entering,  was  received  with  a  ringing 
cheer.  Another  cheer  hailed  the  presence  of  the  Speaker  in  the  chair, 
vacated  by  Mr.  Lyon  Playfair  after  his  second  night's  work. 

Mr.  Biggar  was  on  his  legs  at  the  moment,  his  rasping  voice  filling 


The  Expulsion  of  the  Irish  Members. 


the  chamber  with  nothingnesses,  a  pleasing  process  upon  which  he 
had  been  engaged  upwards  of  an  hour.  He  looked  up  astonished  at 
the  thunderous  cheer.  What  he  beheld  was  the  Speaker  on  his  feet, 
bidding  him,  with  peremptory  gesture,  be  seated.  Amid  breathless 
silence,  the  Speaker  began  to  read  from  a  paper  that  trembled  like  an 
aspen-leaf  in  his  hand. 

For  all  his  grave  aspect  and  stolid  quietude,  Sir  Henry  Brand  is  a 


80  SCENES  IN  THE  BOUSE    OF  COMMONS. 

nervous  man,  and  brings  to  the  performance  of  his  duty  disturbing 
consciousness  of  its  momentous  character.  The  task  he  was  now 
engaged  upon  was  enough  to  shake  the  nerves  of  a  stronger  man. 
What  he  had  to  do  was  to  declare,  on  his  own  authority,  that  debate  in 
the  House  of  Commons  had  exceeded  reasonable  limits,  and  that  there 
and  then  it  must  stop,  and  the  arbitrament  of  the  division  lobby  be 
invoked. 

Never,  since  Cromwell  entered  the  House  at  the  head  of  his  men- 
at-arms,  had  regular  Parliamentary  procedure  been  subject  to  this  swift 
and  arbitrary  cutting  off  by  the  mandate  of  a  single  man. 

The  Speaker  got  through  his  task  with  great  dignity,  being  strength- 
ened by  the  bursts  of  enthusiastic  cheering  that  filled  up  each  slight- 
est pause  in  the  reading.  When  he  had  made  an  end  of  speaking,  he 
proceeded,  in  customary  manner  and  in  ordinary  tone,  to  put  the 
question. 

The  Irish  members,  dazed  and  stunned  by  this  unexpected  and 
irresistible  movement,  made  brief  show  of  fight.  Justin  McCarthy 
rose,  and  essayed  to  speak.  The  House  literally  roared  at  him,  the 
cries  rising  to  a  frantic  pitch  when  a  dozen  Irishmen  leaped  up  around 
him,  and,  raising  their  hands  in  threatening  gesture,  cried  aloud  on 
that  "  privilege  "  they  had  so  sorely  abused.  Their  cries  were  drowned 
in  shouts  of  "  Order  ! "  and,  after  an  exciting  contest  of  several  min- 
utes, they  bent  their  heads  to  the  storm,  with  mock  obeisance  to  the 
Speaker,  and  left  the  House  ;  whereupon  leave  was  given  to  bring  in 
the  Protection  Bill. 

On  the  next  night  the  excitement  in  Parliament,  and  in  the  public 
mind,  reached  even  a  higher  pitch.  With  that  curious  fatality  that 
marked  the  administration  of  Irish  affairs  under  Mr.  Forster,  this  very 
day  had  been  selected  for  taking  a  step,  which,  in  the  mildest  mood, 
would  have  exasperated  the  Irish  members. 

Michael  Davitt  had  been  arrested,  and  thirty-five  Irishmen  were 
determined  to  know  the  reason  why.  The  House  presented  a  crowded 
and  animated  appearance.  Every  seat  on  the  floor  was  filled,  the  gal- 
leries were  crowded,  and  a  throng  stood  at  the  bar.  The  peers'  gallery, 
which  sometimes  presents  open  spaces,  striking  in  a  crowded  House, 
was  so  full,  that  royalty  in  the  person  of  the  Duke  of  Cambridge  stood 
forlorn  in  the  doorway. 

So  profound  is  the  sense  of  royalty  in  the  House  of  Peers,  that  any 
one  of  the  belted  earls,  whose  lineage  goes  farther  back  than  the 
Guelphs,  would  gladly  have  vacated  his  seat  in  favor  of  the  royal  duke. 


SCENES  IN  THE  HOUSE   OF  COMMONS.  8 1 

But,  alas  !  the  duke  was  jammed  in  the  doorway.  The  peers,  who  came 
early,  and  were  seated,  were  packed  like  so  many  herrings  in  a  barrel. 
No  one  could  move,  and  royalty  was  fain  to  stand  whilst  the  peers 
of  the  realm  more  or  less  conveniently  sat. 

The  fight  began  by  Mr.  Parnell  asking  whether  it  was  true  that 
Michael  Davitt  had  been  arrested. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  Home  Secretary,  with  commendable  brevity. 

Mr.  Parnell  wished  to  enter  into  controversy  on  the  spot,  but  was 
ruled  out  of  order ;  and  presently  Mr.  Gladstone  rose  to  move  a  new 
standing  order  against  obstruction,  suggested  by  the  events  of  the 
previous  week. 

Then  John  Dillon  came  to  the  front,  and  none  better  could  have 
been  chosen  for  the  occasion.  Free  by  birth  and  social  surroundings 
from  the  noisy  vulgarity  that  makes  some  of  his  colleagues  insuffer- 
able, it  might  reasonably  have  been  expected  that  he  would  perform 
his  part  with  dignity.  This  he  assuredly  did.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  for  a  death-struggle  with  the  authority  of  the  House,  but  he 
neither  ranted  nor  raved.  He  simply  stood  with  folded  arms  and  stern, 
set  face,  disputing  with  the  prime  minister  the  right  of  addressing  the 
House. 

Of  course  they  would  not  hear  him,  and  he  knew  they  would  not. 
But,  none  the  less,  he  stood  there,  facing  the  infuriated  assembly,  and 
defying  the  more  quietly  assumed  authority  of  the  Chair.  He  could 
not  make  himself  heard.  To  sit  down  would  have  been  to  surrender. 
To  remain  standing,  with  the  Speaker  on  his  feet,  was  a  defiance  of  an 
elementary  and  inexorable  rule  of  order.  Having  made  up  his  mind 
to  defy  the  House,  and  take  the  consequences,  he  succeeded  by  the 
simplest  plan  in  which  there  was  the  least  loss  of  dignity.  As  he 
would  not  sit  down,  he  was  "  named  "  as  he  stood  there,  always  with 
folded  arms,  deathly  pale  face,  and  quiet  manner. 

Then  followed  the  process  of  expulsion,  quickly  followed  by  that 
of  Mr.  Parnell  and  Mr.  Finigan.  This  process  took  time,  as  a  division 
was  challenged  on  every  motion  of  suspension.  Twenty  minutes  at 
least  was  occupied  on  each  event,  and  here  was  a  simple  method  at 
hand  to  give  the  House  another  all-night  sitting. 

In  an  evil  moment  for  themselves,  the  Irish  members  hit  upon  a 
new  plan  of  obstructing.  They  declined  to  go  out  into  the  division 
lobby,  remaining  seated  in  disobedience  to  the  Speaker's  command  to 
clear  the  House.  On  this  they  were  expelled  in  a  body  ;  and,  at  half- 
past  eight,  Mr.  Gladstone  went  back  to  the  first  sentence  of  the  speech 


82  SCENES  IN  THE  BOUSE    OF  COMMONS. 

he  had  commenced  at  five  o'clock,  finishing  it  now  amidst  a  quietude 
and  an  orderliness  about  which  there  seemed  something  uncanny. 

Before  the  House  rose,  it  passed  a  new  standing  order,  which  dealt 
so  heavy  a  blow  at  obstruction  that  it  has  never  since  reached  the 
sublime  heights  attained  at  this  memorable  epoch. 

III. 

MR.  BRADLAUGH  — ENTRANCES  AND  EXITS. 

Mr.  Bradlaugh  has  had  many  exits  and  entrances  to  the  House 
of  Commons,  the  scenes  varying  only  in  intensity.  There  has  been 
another  matter  in  which  variety  has  been  introduced.  Sometimes  the 
member  for  Northampton  has,  after  the  proverbial  manner  of  March, 
come  in  like  a  lion,  and  gone  out  like  a  lamb.  At  other  times  this 
procedure  has  been  reversed ;  and  Mr.  Bradlaugh,  advancing,  with 
mincing  step  and  bland  smile,  towards  the  table,  with  intent  to  take 
the  oath,  has  gone  out,  raging  and  panting,  captive  of  the  spear  of  the 
sergeant-at-arms. 

Like  some  other  great  storms,  the  Bradlaugh  business,  with  which 
the  House  has  intermittently  battled  through  three  sessions,  began 
very  quietly.  It  was  a  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  whence  grew 
the  violent  and  prolonged  storm. 

When,  in  May,  1880,  the  newly  elected  Parliament,  which  had  swept 
away,  by  a  sudden  stroke,  the  powerful  administration  of  Lord  Bea- 
consfield,  met  for  the  ceremony  of  swearing  in,  Mr.  Bradlaugh  appeared 
among  the  throng.  He  had  already  acquired  a  national  reputation  — 
or,  rather,  notoriety  —  for  the  boldness  of  his  declarations  on  theologi- 
cal opinions.  Northampton  had  triumphantly  established  its  eccen- 
tricity by  returning  him  as  the  colleague  of  Mr.  Labouchere. 

The  swearing  in  of  a  new  Parliament  is  carried  on  in  a  wholesale 
manner,  which  seems  to  invite  irregularity.  In  the  case  of  bye-elec- 
tions, the  new  member  is  sworn  in  with  a  certain  deliberateness  that 
invests  the  proceeding  with  importance.  He  is  brought  up  to  the  table 
by  two  members,  who  undertake  to  introduce  him  ;  and  there,  in  the 
presence  of  a  House  always  full  at  this  hour  of  the  evening,  he  has 
the  oath  administered. 

When  six  hundred  and  fifty  gentlemen  come  together  for  the  first 
time  to  take  the  oath  of  fealty,  it  is  done  by  a  sort  of  wholesale  process, 
forty  or  fifty  being  sworn  in  together. 


SCENES  IN  THE   HOUSE  OF   COMMONS.  83 

Mr.  Bradlaugh,  had  he  been  so  minded,  might,  without  remark,  have 
taken  his  part  in  this  not  very  impressive  ceremony.  Or,  as  has  hap- 
pened within  my  own  knowledge  in  at  least  one  case,  he  need  not 
have  taken  the  oath  at  all.  It  is,  at  this  stage,  no  one's  business  to 
inquire.  No  record  is  kept ;  and  a  member  may,  if  he  please,  take  the 
oath  early,  and  take  it  often,  or  may  altogether  abstain. 

The  greater  activity  of  Lord  Randolph  Churchill  has  obscured  more 
modest  claims  to  notice.  But  it  should  be  said  that  to  Sir  Henry  Wolff 
is  due  the  Bradlaugh  issue  ;  and  he  unconsciously  laid  the  foundations 
of  the  famous  Fourth  Party,  to  which  presently  were  to  flock  Lord 
Randolph  Churchill  and  Mr.  Jorst.  It  was  he,  who,  springing  up  from 
a  seat  below  the  gangway,  bodily  interposed  when  Mr.  Bradlaugh  made 
the  first  of  those  raids  upon  the  table,  which,  in  after-months,  made 
him  the  most  familiar  figure  in  the  House. 

Mr.  Gladstone,  and  his  colleagues  of  the  cabinet,  were  not  in  the 
House  when  the  question  first  arose.  Having  accepted  office,  they 
were  absent,  undergoing  the  process  of  re-election. 

A  minor  minister  was  instructed  to  meet  the  case  by  the  familiar 
process  of  moving  for  a  select  committee  to  inquire  into  precedence, 
and  there  it  was  thought  the  matter  would  end. 

But  in  the  brief  interval,  during  which  the  House  had  adjourned 
for  the  re-election  of  ministers,  the  question  had  grown  as  a  fire  grows 
when  it  has  a  fine  old  seasoned  timber  barn  to  play  upon. 

When  the  House  re-assembled,  it  was  plain  enough  that  mischief 
was  brewing.  Sir  Stafford  Northcote,  and  the  other  leaders  of  the 
opposition,  did  not  quite  know  what  to  do,  which  gave  the  earliest 
proof  that  men  like  Sir  Henry  Wolff  and  Lord  Randolph  Churchill 
more  truly  gauged  the  temper  of  Conservatism  in  opposition. 

Mr.  Bradlaugh  met  the  objection  to  his  making  affirmation  by  blandly 
offering  to  take  the  oath.  On  this,  Sir  Henry  Wolff  moved  that  the 
oath  be  not  administered,  which  was  rejected  by  a  small  majority.  Six 
weeks  later,  the  growth  of  opinion  was  manifested  when,  in  a  crowded 
House,  and  amid  a  scene  of  much  excitement,  two  hundred  and  seventy- 
five  voted  against  admitting  Mr.  Bradlaugh  on  any  terms,  and  two  hun- 
dred and  thirty  voted  that  he  be  permitted  to  make  affirmation. 

The  next  day  was  Wednesday,  when  the  House  meets  at  noon. 
Usually  the  chamber  is  so  empty  that  there  is  difficulty  in  finding  forty 
members  to  make  a  House.  On  this  day  every  seat  was  filled,  and 
there  was  everywhere  that  air  of  expectation  which  marks  great  epochs 
in  the  House  of  Commons. 


84  SCENES  IN  THE  HOUSE    OF  COMMONS. 

Mr.  Bradlaugh  arrived  some  minutes  before  noon,  and  waited  in  the 
lobby  till  prayers  were  concluded.  Just  on  the  stroke  of  half-past 
twelve,  when  members  had  settled  down  in  their  places,  when  the  last 
"  Amen  "  had  been  uttered,  and  when  the  skirts  of  the  chaplain  had 
just  vanished  through  the  doorway,  the  massive,  fleshy  figure  of  Mr. 
Bradlaugh  was  seen  making  straight  for  the  table. 

The  Speaker  informed  him  of  the  decision  arrived  at  by  the  House 
at  an  early  hour  of  the  morning,  and  ordered  him  to  retire. 

Mr.  Bradlaugh,  as  through  subsequent  episodes,  showed  that  he  is 
nothing  if  not  orderly ;  and,  bowing  low  to  authority,  he  promptly  re- 
tired, whilst  Mr.  Labouchere  submitted  the  proposition  that  he  be 
heard  at  the  bar.  This  was  agreed  to  without  controversy.  The  bar 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  of  which  so  much  is  written  in  history, 
has  an  actual  and  visible  existence.  It  is  a  brass  pole,  which  shuts  up 
in  telescopic  fashion  through  the  back  of  the  cross-benches  at  the 
entrance. 

The  agitated  messengers  had  scarcely  drawn  from  its  retreat  this 
brass  pole,  which  means  so  much,  and  is  shut  up  within  so  little,  than 
Mr.  Bradlaugh  strode  in,  and  stood  before  it.  It  presently  became 
clear,  that,  for  the  purpose  of  effective  delivery  of  his  speech,  the  adver- 
saries of  the  outlawed  member  had  provided  him  with  a  singular 
advantage.  Instead  of  speaking  in  the  face  of  one-half  of  his  audi- 
ence, himself  cooped  up  with  other  members  in  a  crowded  bench,  he 
now  stood  literally  on  the  floor  of  the  House,  facing  the  crowded 
historic  assembly,  "one  against  six  hundred,"  as  he  said. 

Beginning  in  a  low  tone  of  voice,  he  craved  the  indulgence  of  the 
House  whilst  he  showed  cause  against  the  enactment  of  the  resolution 
refusing  him  admission.  He.  was  there  ready  to  fulfil  every  form  of 
the  House,  and  to  perform  every  duty  commanded  of  him  by  his  con- 
stituents. At  present  he  was  standing  at  the  bar  of  the  House,  plead- 
ing for  justice  ;  "but,"  he  added,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  pointing  toward 
the  benches  under  the  gangway,  to  the  right  of  the  Speaker,  "  it  is 
there  I  should  plead." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me  ?  "  he  asked,  suddenly  dropping 
his  voice  from  the  height  of  passion,  to  which  it  had  been  uplifted, 
and,  leaning  a  little  on  the  bar,  looked,  with  placid  interest,  round  the 
House,  as  if  the  question  were  one  in  which  he  was  only  remotely  in- 
terested. Would  they  declare  the  seat  vacant  ?  Well,  he  would  be 
again  returned.     And  what  next  ? 

"  I  have  no  desire  to  wrestle  with  you  for  justice,"  he  continued, 


SCENES  IN  THE  BOUSE    OF   COMMONS. 


85 


holding  both  hands  out  over  the  bar  with  deprecating  gesture  ;  "  but, 
if  the  struggle  is  forced  by  the  House,  I  will  fearlessly  and  hopefully 
submit  the  cause  to  a  tribunal  higher  than  this  great  assembly,  and 
will  ask  public  opinion  to  decide  between  you. and  me."  This  said, 
Mr.  Bradlaugh  turned,  and  left  the  House 


Mr.  Bradlaugh. 

Members,  however,  had  not  seen  the  last  of  him.  They  had  already 
voted  that  admission  should  be  refused  to  him  ;  and,  as  Sir  Stafford 
Northcote  said,  it  did  not  seem  that  there  was  any  occasion  to  take  new 
steps,  or  to  hold  any  further  communication  with  Mr.  Bradlaugh. 

The  Speaker,  however,  ruled  that  Mr.  Bradlaugh  should  be  called 
in,  and  have  formally  communicated  to  him  the  decision  of  the  House. 
This  was  done.     The  Speaker  briefly  recited  the  events  of  the  sitting, 


86  SCENES  IN  THE  HOUSE   OF  COMMONS. 

and  concluded  by  commanding  the  member  from  Northampton  to 
withdraw. 

"  I  beg,  respectfully,  to  insist  upon  my  right  as  duly  elected  mem- 
ber for  Northampton,"  Mr.  Bradlaugh  composedly  replied.  "  I  beg 
you  to  administer  the  oath,  and  I  respectfully  refuse  to  withdraw." 

Never,  since  the  House  was  constituted,  had  there  been  an  inci- 
dent like  this.  The  Speaker  was  bearded  in  his  chair,  and  the  House 
stood  aghast  at  the  enormity  of  the  offence.  The  sergeant-at-arms 
was  ordered  to  remove  Mr.  Bradlaugh.  At  the  touch  of  the  represen- 
tative of  the  Queen,  Mr.  Bradlaugh,  consumed  by  anxiety  that  every 
thing  should  be  in  order,  announced  that  he  was  prepared  to  go  as  far 
as  the  bar,  but  promised  immediately  to  return.  This  undertaking  he 
faithfully  fulfilled.  Having  quietly  accompanied  the  sergeant-at-arms 
to  the  bar,  he  abruptly  turned,  and,  moving  again  toward  the  table,  he, 
with  a  sweeping  gesture  of  his  right  hand,  claimed  the  right,  deputed 
to  him  by  the  electors  of  Northampton,  to  take  his  seat. 

The  sergeant-at-arms  (who  is  only  ten  years  younger  than  the  cen- 
tury) gallantly  tackled  him.  But  the  burly  intruder  shook  him  off  as 
if  he  had  been  a  fly,  and  strode  onward,  amid  a  scene  of  indescribable 
excitement.  Half  a  dozen  members  were  addressing  the  Chair  in  as 
many  parts  of  the  House. 

The  Speaker  was  on  his  feet.  Members  were  shouting  and  ges- 
ticulating ;  and  here,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  floor,  with  stout  legs 
firmly  set  apart,  stood  Mr.  Bradlaugh,  determined  and  defiant.  In  the 
end,  he  was  got  comfortably  off  to  the  Clock  Tower,  in  custody  of  the 
sergeant-at-arms,  whence,  a  few  days  later,  he  was  entreated  by  his 
jailers  to  go  forth,  as  in  olden  times  was  the  apostle  Paul. 

It  were  too  long  a  story  to  follow  up  Mr.  Bradlaugh's  subsequent 
advances.  It  came  to  be  quite  a  common  incident  of  a  month's  ses- 
sion, that  the  member  for  Northampton  should  march  up  to  the  table, 
and  then  back,  accompanied  by  the  sergeant-at-arms.  In  the  first  week 
of  the  new  session  of  1882,  he  introduced  some  variation  into  the  pro- 
ceedings by  administering  the  oath  to  himself ;  whereupon  he  accom- 
plished another  exit,  this  time  of  a  more  uproarious  character,  being 
delivered  out  into  the  Palace  Yard,  panting,  hatless,  and  ragged. 


SCENES  IN  THE  HOUSE    OF   COMMONS.  87 


IV. 

THE   IRISH    LAND-BILL    OF    1881. 

On  occasions  when  Mr.  Gladstone  is  charged  with  the  delivery  of 
important  messages  from  the  House  of  Commons,  there  is  always  a 
great  gathering  of  whatever  sections  of  the  public  can,  whether  of 
right  or  of  good  fortune,  obtain  access  to  the  chamber.  At  such  times 
the  House  of  Commons  is,  in  regard  of  cubic  measurement,  altogether 
inadequate.  If,  by  any  strange  impulse,  the  whole  of  the  six  hundred 
and  fifty-eight  members,  of  which  the  House  is  composed,  were  to 
come  down  on  a  given  night,  and  claim  their  seats,  the  result  would  be 
most  calamitous. 

Happily,  it  rarely  occurs  to  a  maximum  exceeding  five  hundred 
members  simultaneously  to  claim  sitting-room  in  the  House.  The 
division-lists  not  infrequently  show  an  aggregate  in  excess  of  this  num- 
ber. But,  because  members  are  present  at  a  division,  it  does  not  fol- 
low that  they  have  sat  through  a  debate.  Some  of  the  younger  and 
more  enthusiastic  thus  complete  the  round  of  duty.  The  older  and 
wiser,  impelled  by  growing  years  to  take  additional  care  of  their  health, 
mental  and  physical,  judiciously  divide  the  labor.  They  shirk  the 
speeches,  and  conscientiously  vote  on  the  question  that  has  been 
debated. 

On  the  8th  of  April,  1881,  when  Mr.  Gladstone  brought  in  the  Irish 
Land-Bill  of  the  year,  there  were  something  over  five  hundred  members 
present.  Those  who  could  not  find  room  on  the  floor,  sought  the  gal- 
leries, which  technically  are  supposed  to  be  outside  the  House.  A 
member  can  neither  address  the  House  from  them,  nor  take  part  in 
any  division,  if  the  question  has  been  put  whilst  he  is  seated  there. 
But  it  is  a  good  place  to  hear  from,  more  especially  if  a  place  be 
secured  in  the  first  row  of  the  gallery  facing  the  orator. 

The  inadequate  galleries  allotted  to  the  service  of  the  general  pub- 
lic were  also  crowded.  Moreover,  on  this  night  was  indicated,  for  the 
first  time,  that  profound  interest  in  the  bill  on  the  part  of  the  House 
of  Lords  which  was  maintained  throughout  the  subsequent  wearisome 
discussion. 

Land-owners  with  vast  possessions  in  Ireland,  naturally  were  at- 
tracted by  curiosity  to  hear  the  details  of  a  measure  that  directly 
affected  their  fortunes.     Other  peers,  more  happily  blessed  with  land 


88  SCENES  IN  THE  HOUSE   OF  COMMONS. 

in  England  or  Scotland,  were  scarcely  less  profoundly  interested  in  a 
measure  which  their  instinct  told  them  might  hereafter,  in  some  modi- 
fied form,  be  applied  to  Great  Britain. 

On  this  night,  and  on  all  succeeding  nights,  whenever  a  critical 
point  or  stage  of  the  Land  Bill  was  reached,  the  section  of  the  gallery 
allotted  to  the  House  of  Lords  was  sure  to  be  crowded  with  deeply 
interested  auditors. 

Mr.  Gladstone's  speeches,  on  occasions  like  this,  rarely  fall  below 
popular  expectation,  which  is  pitched  very  high.  There  is  no  public 
speaker  in  English  political  life  who  has,  in  equal  measure,  the  gift  of 
so  handling  and  marshalling  details  as  to  make  an  intricate  problem 
clear  to  the  meanest  intelligence. 

Of  many  points  of  divergence  of  character  between  Lord  Beacons- 
field  and  Mr.  Gladstone,  one  was  their  way  of  regarding  facts.  To 
Lord  Beaconsfield,  facts  were  always  a  trouble  :  to  Mr.  Gladstone,  they 
are  ever  a  delight.  Lord  Beaconsfield's  imagination,  touched  with  the 
effulgence  of  the  Eastern  sun,  pitifully  hobbled  when  chained  to  dry 
details  and  masses  of  figures.  Imagination  is  one  of  the  least  promi- 
nent among  Mr.  Gladstone's  characteristics.  He  has  all  a  Scotchman's 
love  for  hard,  dry  facts  ;  though,  with  something  more  than  a  Scotch- 
man's genius,  he  is  enabled  to  surround  them  with  a  glamour  of  elo- 
quence that  makes  their  study  as  interesting  as  a  reading  from 
"  Lothair." 

Of  late  years  Mr.  Gladstone  has  refrained  from  those  great  efforts 
of  oratory,  which,  up  to  1874,  he  was  wont  to  engage  upon  when  intro- 
ducing great  subjects  to  the  House  of  Commons. 

It  is  a  notable  fact,  that  the  last  of  a  series  of  brilliant  budgets  was 
explained  in  the  House  of  Commons  in  a  speech  that  concluded  with- 
out a  peroration. 

Like  Mr.  Bright,  and  like  all  great  orators,  Mr.  Gladstone,  through 
his  fifty  years  of  public  speaking,  has  been  accustomed  to  close  his 
speeches  with  some  exquisitely  modulated  sentence,  that  should,  as  his 
voice  was  hushed,  dwell  on  the  ears  of  his  audience  like  echoes  of 
sweet  music.  Some  of  his  perorations  are  historical,  have  been  learned 
off  by  heart  by  thousands,  and  have  taken  their  places  among  favored 
passages  of  the  English  language.  It  seemed  to  those  who  heard  the 
last  budget  speech,  that  changes  were  at  hand  when  the  great  financier 
could  abruptly  resume  his  seat  after  some  commonplace  remark  in 
supplement  of  his  exposition. 

The  speech  on  introducing  the  new  Irish  Land-Bill  was  not  pitched 


SCENES  IN  THE  HOUSE    OF   COMMONS. 


89 


on  a  very  high  key.  Mr.  Gladstone  had  in  his  hand  the  notes  of  an 
extensive  and  elaborate  scheme.  The  issues  at  stake  were  stupendous, 
the  responsibility  of  failure  or  success  enormous.  What  he  had  to  do 
was  to  make  it  absolutely  clear,  not  only  to  the  listening  House,  but 
to  the  vast  public  out- 
side, and  to  the  jealous 
critics  across  the  Chan- 
nel. 

Perhaps  the  premier 
himself  was  not  at  this 
time  strung  on  a  very 
high  key.  There  were 
dissensions  in  the  cabi- 
net, presently  to  be 
disclosed  in  the  retire- 
ment of  the  Duke  of 
Argyle  and  the  Marquis 
of  Lansdowne.  There 
were  the  Radicals,  ex 
pecting  too  much ;  the 
Conservatives,  wanting 
to  see  performed  too 
little  ;  and  the  Land- 
Leaguers,  determined 
to  be  dissatisfied  with 
any  thing. 

Moreover,  Mr.  Glad- 
stone himself  was  not 
in  robust  health.  He 
had  not  long  returned 
to  the  House  after  the 

accident  which  befell  him  when  he  slipped  in  the  snow  on  entering  his 
carriage,  and  received  an  ugly  wound. 

The  House  knew  all  about  the  wound,  having  literally  seen  it  in 
the  flesh.  Only  a  few  weeks  earlier,  when  Mr.  Gladstone  returned  to 
the  House  after  a  brief  withdrawal,  he  wore  a  black  skull-cap.  One 
night  there  had  been  a  false  alarm.  Mr.  Biggar  had  tried  to  count  out 
the  House,  or  Lord  Randolph  Churchill  had  sprung  a  division  at  an 
awkward  time. 

The  division-bell  ringing,  members  flocked  in  from  all  parts,  and 


Mr.  Gladstone. 


90  SCENES  IN  THE  BOUSE   OF  COMMONS. 

were  astounded  to  see  the  premier  darting  in  from  behind  the  Speaker's 
chair  with  all  the  agility  of  seventy-one,  and  on  his  bald  crown  a  gigan- 
tic star-shaped  diagram  of  diachylum.  In  the  hurry  of  the  moment, 
and  prompt  at  the  call  of  duty,  he  had  forgotten  to  put  on  his  skull- 
cap, and  presented  this  alarming  spectacle  to  the  astounded  Commons 
of  England. 

The  scars  were  healing  up  now  ;  and  the  premier  stood,  without 
skull-cap  or  diachylum,  discoursing  on  the  perennial  miseries  of  Ire- 
land and  the  perpetual  cry  for  relief.  He  spoke  for  a  trifle  under  two 
hours,  a  singular  compression  for  him  who,  on  these  occasions,  was 
wont  luxuriantly  to  revel  in  all  kinds  of  by-paths  suggested  by  chance 
phrases.  He  kept  closely  to  his  text,  which  was,  in  its  lesser  applica- 
tion, to  demonstrate  the  necessity  for  fresh  legislation  on  the  Land 
Question,  and,  next,  to  explain  minutely  the  details  of  the  remediable 
measure. 

That  he  succeeded  was  testified  to  by  the  rapt  attention  of  the 
assembly,  and  by  the  complete  manner  in  which  the  members,  too,  held 
in  their  hands  the  whole  threads  of  the  scheme.  But  for  lofty  lan- 
guage, and  the  side-lights  of  glowing  fancy,  this  speech  would  not  com- 
pare with  many  that  have  gone  before. 

Yet  here  is  the  peroration,  which,  even  in  all  the  bareness  of  type, 
is  charming :  — 

"Walking  in  the  path  of  justice,"  he  said,  "we  cannot  err.  Guided 
by  that  light,  we  are  safe.  Every  step  we  take  upon  our  road  brings 
us  nearer  to  the  goal  ;  and  every  obstacle,  though  it  seem  for  the  mo- 
ment unsurmountable,  can  only  for  a  little  while  retard,  and  never  can 
defeat,  the  final  triumph." 

As  the  orator  spoke  these  words,  he  threw,  both  into  his  voice  and 
bearing,  a  certain  solemnity  which  recalls  the  ideal  of  the  prophets  of 
old.  The  fire  of  argument  was  allowed  suddenly  to  die  out.  The 
eager,  almost  passionate  way,  in  which  he  had  pursued  controversial 
points,  was  dropped.  Standing  erect,  with  head  slightly  thrown  back, 
and  hands  dropped  to  his  side,  he  spoke  these  words  in  a  voice  com- 
paratively low,  and  slightly  trembling  with  emotion.  There  was,  for 
briefest  space,  a  pause  in  the  crowded  House  as  he  made  an  end  of 
speaking,  and  resumed  his  seat.  Then  the  cheers,  breaking  forth  with 
thunderous  force,  told  how  successfully  he  had  played  upon  this  incom- 
parable audience. 

In  the  House  of  Commons,  it  is  usual  for  leave  to  introduce  a  bill 
to  be  given  as  a  matter  of  course.     No  debate  followed  on  Mr.  Glad- 


SCENES  IN  THE  BOUSE    OF  COMMONS.  91 

stone's  speech,  to  which,  with  that  manly  generosity  that  so  aggravates 
some  of  his  followers,  Sir  Stafford  Northcote  paid  the  tribute  of  his 
unfeigned  admiration. 

In  clue  time,  the  second  reading  was  moved  ;  and  then  commenced 
a  wearisome  and  purposeless  debate,  which  lasted  over  several  weeks. 

The  position  of  parties  was  peculiar.  The  Conservatives,  after  long 
hesitation,  had  decided  not  to  meet  the  motion  for  the  second  reading 
with  a  direct  negative.  They  had  accepted  a  wordy  amendment  of 
Lord  Elcho's,  and  found  this  fought  in  a  half-hearted  way.  Mr.  Par- 
nell,  in  even  a  more  awkward  position,  took  a  more  curiously  middle 
course.  It  was  not  for  Irish  members  to  oppose  a  piece  of  legislation, 
the  liberality  of  which  arrayed  against  it  the  whole  force  of  the  land- 
lords. Yet  Mr.  Parnell  could  not  bring  himself  to  support  the  gov- 
ernment that  was  about  to  confer  this  boon  upon  Ireland.  He  had 
announced  his  intention  of  walking  out  when  the  division  was  called. 
In  view  of  this  kind  of  opposition,  the  issue  was  a  foregone  conclusion, 
and  all  that  was  waited  for  was  the  division. 

At  last  this  came  at  two  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  22d  of 
May.  The  night  had  been  as  dull  as  any  that  had  preceded  it.  Now, 
in  anticipation  of  the  division,  the  House  was  thronged  with  members 
growing  increasingly  indignant  at  the  delays  interposed. 

At  last  the  Speaker  was  on  his  feet,  the  question  put,  and  the 
House  cleared  for  a  division.  The  Irish  members  rose  in  a  body,  and 
left  the  House  ;  Mr.  Parnell  bringing  up  in  the  rear,  and  smiling  scorn- 
fully at  the  mocking  laughter  and  ironical  cheering  with  which  this 
comedy  was  watched. 

A  crowd  of  members  gathered  at  the  bar.  The  ministerial  benches 
were  filled  to  their  utmost  capacity.  On  the  treasurer's  bench  sat  Mr. 
Gladstone,  looking  pale,  and  infinitely  wearied.  He  had  been  engaged, 
during  the  past  hour,  in  the  effort  to  write  his  nightly  letter  to  the 
Queen,  summarizing  the  course  of  debate,  the  endeavor  being  ham- 
pered by  the  exciting  scenes  constantly  breaking  forth.  Members 
streamed  slowly  out  to  the  division,  and  trickled  back,  first  in  twos  and 
threes,  then  in  a  long  stream  that  occasionally  became  dammed  at  the 
bar.  The  tellers  coming  in,  the  Ministerial  whip  read  out  the  figures  : 
"  For  Lord  Elcho's  amendment,  one  hundred  and  seventy-six  against 
three  hundred  and  fifty-two."  By  two  to  one  the  bill  was  carried,  and 
cheer  after  cheer  rose  from  the  Liberal  benches  at  a  majority  so 
unexpectedly  large. 

There  was  no  one  to  cry  "  No  !  "  to  the  proposal  for  the  second 


92  SCENES  IN  THE  HOUSE    OF  COMMONS. 

reading ;  and,  the  work  accomplished,  members  streamed  out  into 
Palace  Yard,  excitedly  discussing  the  result.  It  seemed  a  long  stride 
from  the  heated  chamber  and  the  noisy  discussion  into  the  cool  spring 
morning.  In  the  south,  the  crescent  moon  shone  in  a  sea  of  deepest 
azure.  In  the  east,  the  blue  was  paling  into  opal,  and  a  few  fleecy 
clouds  were  just  touched  with  rose-tint.  Day  was  breaking  over  the 
sleeping  city  ;  and  members  went  home,  hoping  and  believing  that  day 
was  at  last  breaking  for  long  unhappy  Ireland. 

Thirteen  months  later  the  House  of  Commons  gathered  in  solemn 
silence  to  hear  Mr.  Thornton,  in  broken  voice,  deplore  the  cruel  cut- 
ting-off  of  Lord  Frederick  Cavendish,  a  murderous  deed  which  was  the 
immediate  prelude  of  a  fresh  Coercion  Bill  and  a  new  Land  Act. 


LORD   BEACONSFIELD. 


By  CANON   F.   W.  FARRAR. 

MY  object  is  to  call  the  attention  of  young  men  to  some  of  the 
elements  of  the  late  Lord  Beaconsfield's  greatness,  and  some 
of  the  high  qualities  by  which  he  achieved  his  memorable  career.  As 
a  rule,  the  character  of  English  statesmen  in  the  last  two  or  three 
generations  has  been  a  lofty  character.  As  a  rule,  it  has  maintained, 
in  all  regions  of  public  life,  the  standard  of  English  honor  and  English 
disinterestedness. 

We  think  with  admiration  of  Chatham's  splendid  vehemence,  of 
Pitt's  inextinguishable  hope,  of  Percival's  sincere  religion,  of  Burke's 
philosophic  genius,  of  Fox's  burning  enthusiasm,  of  Wilberforce's  hal- 
lowed philanthropy,  of  Grattan's  undaunted  patriotism,  of  Canning's 
brilliant  gayety,  of  Peel's  pure  life,  of  Palmerston's  genial  kindness,  of 
Russell's  high-toned  magnanimity,  of  that  great  soldier  "  whose  gray- 
haired  virtue  was  a  grander  thing  than  even  Waterloo." 

Lord  Ellenborough  says,  in  his  diary,  "  The  more  I  know  of  the 
interior  of  politics,  the  more  shabby  and  personal  the  motives  of  men 
appear."  But  the  poorness  of  the  motive  may  be  due  to  the  fault  of 
the  observer ;  and  although  I  should  be  far  from  representing  the  char- 
acter of  Lord  Beaconsfield  as  being  in  any  sense  an  ideal  character,  or 
his  career  as  an  ideal  career,  yet  I  think  that  it  is  a  noble  instinct  which 
makes  us  desire  to  make  men's  virtues  live  in  brass  while  we  write  their 
evil  manners  in  water. 

However  serious  may  have  been  the  faults  of  Benjamin  Disraeli, 
Envy  herself  will,  I  think,  admit  that  he  had  qualities  which  leave 
large  room  for  honest  praise.  It  is  about  one  or  two  of  these  qualities 
that  I  now  propose  to  write. 

l.  Notice,  for  instance,  the  courage  with  which  he  stood  by  his 
race.     He  never  shrank  from  the  name  of  Jew.     He  met,  with  open 

93 


94  LORD  BEACONSFIELD. 

scorn,  the  sneer  of  those  who  scoffed  at  what  he  claimed  as  a  distinc- 
tion. He  felt  that  it  must  indeed  be  a  great  race  of  which  alone  it 
could  be  said  that  it  gave  a  prime  minister  to  Pharaoh  in  Egypt  four 
thousand  years  ago,  and  a  prime  minister  to  Darius  in  Persia  two  thou- 
sand five  hundred  years  ago,  and  a  prime  minister  to  Queen  Victoria 
in  the  England  of  1879. 

While  many  a  man  is  meanly  ashamed  of  his  poor  relations,  let  it 
be  recorded  to  the  honor  of  Benjamin  Disraeli,  that,  throughout  a  long 
career,  he  never  blushed  to  own  brotherhood  with  an  insulted  nation. 

2.  Again,  may  we  not  admire  the  reticence  of  his  later  years,  and 
the  almost  unbroken  silence  and  self-control  with  which,  during  his 
premiership,  he  endured  a  storm  of  obloquy  ?  At  more  than  one 
period  of  his  life,  he  was  subject  to  attacks  of  the  most  envenomed 
bitterness,  and  to  accusations  of  which  some  might  have  been  rebutted 
by  a  word.  But,  in  the  closing  period  of  his  career,  he  generally  left 
the  word  unspoken,  and  trusted  that  his  countrymen  would,  in  the  long- 
run,  judge  with  fairness  of  his  acts  and  motives. 

"  The  right  honorable  gentleman,"  I  once  heard  him  say,  after  a 
severe  attack  from  Mr.  Robert  Lowe  (now  Lord  Sherbrooke)  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  "  was  extremely  exuberant  in  his  comments  upon 
my  character  and  career.  I  have  sat  in  this  House  more  than  thirty 
years,  and  can  truly  say,  that,  during  that  time,  comments  upon  my 
character  and  career  have  been  tolerably  free.  But  the  House  has 
been  the  jury  of  my  life,  and  it  allows  me  here  to  address  it ;  and, 
therefore,  here  is  not  the  place  in  which  I  think  it  necessary  to  justify 
myself." 

And  I  think  that  this  power  of  remaining  silent  under  attacks 
arose  from  his  superiority  to  transient  popularity.  "  They  say.  What 
say  they  ?  Let  them  say  !  "  is  a  motto  which  would  well  have  suited 
his  strong  self-reliance. 

In  one  of  his  latest  speeches,  he  expressed  his  contempt  for  that 
incessant  babblement  of  crude  condemnations,  that  "  weak,  washy, 
everlasting  flood "  of  dogmatism  upon  matters  of  which  the  writers 
are  profoundly  ignorant,  which,  in  one  of  his  characteristic  phrases,  he 
called  "the  harebrained  chatter  of  irresponsible  frivolity." 

He  might  have  fairly  said,  with  the  great  Lord  Mansfield,  "  I  will 
do  my  duty  unawed.  What  am  I  to  fear  ?  Is  it  that  mcndax  infamia 
from  the  press  which  daily  coins  false  facts  and  false  motives  ?  The 
lies  of  calumny  carry  no  terror  to  me.  I  wish  popularity ;  but  it  is 
that  popularity  which  follows,  not  which  is  run  after.     It  is  that  popu- 


LORD  BEACONSFIELD. 


95 


larity  which,  sooner  or  later,  never  fails  to  do  justice  to  the  pursuit  of 
noble  ends  by  noble  means." 

I  am  sure  that  not  one  of  his  contemporaries  surpassed  Lord  Bea- 


Lord  Beaconsfield. 


consfield  in  his  indifference  to  that  "mushroom  popularity  which  is 
raised  without  merit,  and  lost  without  a  crime  ;  "  that  present,  passing, 
evanescent  popularity  which  is  but  the  "  echo  of  folly  and  the  shadow 
of  renown,"  and  which  often  falls  for  a  brief  season  to  the  meanest  of 
mankind. 


96  LORD  BEAC0NSF1ELD. 

3.  Again,  it  was  the  clearly  defined  individuality  of  Lord  Beacons- 
field  which  deepened  the  admiration  of  his  contemporaries.  And,  in 
days  like  these,  this  isolation,  this  aloofness,  this  markedness  of  char- 
acter, are  the  more  valuable  because  they  are  so  rare. 

We  are  all  getting  more  and  more  apt  to  run  in  grooves  ;  to  say 
the  same  things  in  the  same  phrases  ;  to  do  the  same  things  in  the 
same  ways  ;  to  echo  the  same  current  cries  ;  to  adopt  the  same  foolish 
fashions  ;  to  shout  in  chorus  against  the  unpopular  man  or  the  unpopu- 
lar opinion  of  the  hour ;  to  pride  ourselves  on  being  at  the  dead  level 
of  conventionalism  and  mediocrity ;  to  take  the  dictum  of  the  majority 
for  an  oracle,  and  the  shout  of  the  noisiest  for  truths. 

Let  us  hail  a  cedar  here  and  there  among  the  fir-trees,  —  much 
more  amid  these  wind-shaken  reeds  of  the  wilderness,  these  quivering 
grasses  of  the  plain  !  We  are  all  such  echoes  and  reflections  of  one 
another,  such  repeaters  of  mechanical  shibboleths,  and  slaves  of  gen- 
eral traditions,  that  it  is  a  gain  to  national  life  when  we  find  a  man, 
who,  amid  the  jostlings  of  opinion,  will  believe  in  himself,  his  own 
genius,  his  own  determination  ;  who  looks  for  the  star  of  his  destiny  in 
his  own  bosom  ;  who,  knowing  that  the  view  of  the  multitude  does  but 
represent  the  opinion  of  the  collective  mediocrity,  dares  to  be  in  the 
right  with  two  or  three. 

Honor  to  the  man  who  feels  the  dignity  of  separate  manhood !  who 
can  hold  his  own  in  silence  among  angry  opposites,  and,  whether  suc- 
cessful or  unsuccessful,  can  still  be  true  to,  can  still  fall  back  upon, 
himself  ! 

4.  In  this  marked  individuality,  nothing  was  more  remarkable  than 
Lord  Beaconsfield's  strength  of  will.  He  has  set  to  many  a  genera- 
tion an  example  of  what  steadfastness  can  do.  Young  men  may  learn 
from  him  how  invincible  is  the  spirit  which  has  the  strength  to  say, 
"  I  will." 

Nothing  is  more  deplorable  than  the  feebleness,  the  placidity,  the 
limpness  of  purpose,  of  many  of  our  youths.  They  live  at  haphazard  : 
they  live  from  hand  to  mouth,  without  reverence,  without  purpose,  with- 
out self-denial,  without  force.  They  are  all  straw :  they  have  no  iron 
in  them.  They  would  like  distinction  very  well  if  it  dropped  into 
their  mouths  ;  but  they  lack  the  manly  fibre,  the  stern  self-control,  the 
never-wearied  patience,  the  inflexible  determination,  the  unwavering 
adaptation  of  means  to  ends,  by  which  success  is  won. 

Still  more  do  too  many  of  them  lack  the  strenuous  wisdom  which 
takes  the  measure  of   earthly  success,  and   despises  it,  and  sees  the 


LORD  BEACONSFJELD.  97 

most  eternal  and  magnificent  of  all  successes  in  the  beatitude  of  pov- 
erty bravely  borne  for  a  noble  cause,  and  in  the  anguish  of  that 
martyrdom  which  is  virtue  fighting  to  the  death  for  truth. 

But  even  for  earthly  success,  much  more  for  the  divine  success, 
energy  is  indispensable.  It  is  only  to  the  energetic  man  that  the 
blessed  immortals  are  swift  :  while  the  youth  who  chooses  indolence, 
and  selfish  pleasures,  and  vulgar  comfort,  will,  alas !  give  back  to  his 
Creator  at  the  last  perhaps  not  even  his  one  talent  in  a  napkin  ;  per- 
haps, alas  !  nothing  but  "  the  dust  of  his  body  and  the  shipwreck  of 
his  soul." 

5.  Another  admirable  feature  of  his  life  was,  that  this  fine  power 
of  will,  this  battle-brunt  and  manhood  of  his  nature,  was  undaunted  by 
difficulties. 

Truly,  if  he  had  feared  difficulties,  he  would  not  have  died  an  ac- 
knowledged leader  of  men.  A  Jew,  the  son  of  an  author  of  limited 
means,  without  rank,  without  connections,  without  public-school  train- 
ing, without  university  education,  not  even  baptized  till  he  was  about 
fourteen,  beginning  life  as  an  articled  clerk,  long  hampered  by  debts, 
with  no  advantages  of  person,  with  no  overwhelming  power  of  oratory, 
with  some  disadvantages  of  manner,  he  yet  determined  to  become  the 
leader  of  the  proudest  aristocracy  in  the  world. 

By  steady  perseverance,  by  genius,  by  patience,  by  watchfulness,  by 
inextinguishable  resolve  and  daring,  he  burst  his  way  through  all  these 
thorny  obstacles,  and  died  an  earl,  a  Knight  of  the  Garter,  a  man  who 
had  swayed  cabinets  and  parliaments  and  foreign  congresses,  the  friend 
of  his  sovereign,  and  the  favorite  of  the  nation. 

And  I  think  that  one  reason  why  the  people  of  England  admired 
and  loved  him,  whatever  may  have  been  his  faults,  was  because  of  this 
resolution,  which  ploughed  its  way  through  so  many  rude  detractions, 
and  would  not  be  subdued,  even  by  failures. 

In  opening  life,  his  mistakes,  his  inconsistencies,  his  quarrels,  were 
such  as  would  have  crushed  any  ordinary  man.  But  he  never  quailed, 
though  he  had  to  fight,  often  single-handed,  against  a  multitude  of 
most  formidable  antagonists. 

When  his  first  speech,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  was  met  by 
every  possible  manifestation  of  opposition  and  ridicule,  and  at  last 
drowned  in  uproar,  every  one  knows  how,  stopping  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence,  he  lifted  his  hand,  and  cried,  in  the  full  tones  of  a  voice 
which  rose  above  the  tumult,  — 

"  I  have  begun  several  times  many  things,  and  yet  have  often  sue- 


98  LORD  BEACONSFIELD. 

ceeded  at  last.  I  will  sit  down  now,  but  the  time  will  come  when  you 
shall  hear  me!" 

"  Was  I,"  he  said,  in  recounting  the  incident  to  his  constituents  at 
Maidstone,  "to  yield  to  this  insulting  derision  like  a  child  or  a  pol- 
troon ?  No.  When  I  sat  down,  I  sent  them  my  defiance.  There  are 
emergencies  in  which  it  becomes  necessary  to  show  that  a  man  will 
not  be  crushed.  I  trust  I  showed,  under  unparalleled  interruption,  the 
spirit  of  a  man,  and  the  generosity  of  a  combatant  who  does  not  soon 
lose  his  temper." 

He  fulfilled  his  own  prophecy.  For  years  he  fought  unquelled  the 
losing  battle  of  a  minority,  often  querulous,  and  often  disheartened,  of 
which  he  was  always  the  leader,  and  never  the  slave.  When  he  was 
driven  from  office  in  1852,  by  the  defeat  of  his  budget,  he  left  the 
House  at  early  dawn  as  gay  and  fresh  as  if  he  had  achieved  a  great 
victory. 

Let  young  men  at  least  learn  from  him  not  to  be  easily  daunted. 
The  world  comes  round  for  him  who  knows  how  to  wait  ;  and,  as  for 
difficulties  to  the  young  man  and  to  the  strong  will,  they  ought  to  be 
no  more  than  the  threads  of  gossamer,  sparkling  with  dewdrops,  which 
we  break  away  by  thousands  as  we  stride  through  the  morning-fields. 

I  will  mention  but  one  more  characteristic  of  this  eminent  man. 
It  was,  that,  even  from  boyhood,  he  aimed  at  nothing  short  of  the  high- 
est power.  Call  it  personal  ambition  if  you  will,  and  admit  that  per- 
sonal ambition,  unless  it  be  redeemed  by  purer  motives,  is  an  earthliness 
and  an  infirmity.  Yet  admit,  also,  that,  when  a  man  docs  aspire,  it  is 
well  that  he  should  aim  at  something  loftier  than  the  sluggish  ease  of 
the  suburban  villa,  or  the  comfortable  vulgarity  of  the  selfish  million- 
naire. 

Speaking  to  youths  at  Manchester,  Lord  Beaconsfield  said,  "  I  give 
to  them  that  counsel  which  I  have  ever  given  to  youth.  I  tell  them 
to  aspire.  I  believe  that  the  youth  who  does  not  look  up,  will  look 
down  ;  and  that  the  spirit  which  does  not  dare  to  soar,  is  destined,  per- 
haps, to  grovel." 

But  it  was  not  a  purely  selfish  ambition  to  which  he  urged  them. 
"You  will  be  called,"  he  said,  "to  great  duties.  Remember  what  has 
been  done  for  you.  Remember,  that,  when  the  inheritance  devolves 
upon  you,  you  are  not  only  to  enjoy,  but  to  improve.  You  will  some 
day  succeed  to  the  high  places  of  this  great  community.  Recollect 
those  who  lighted  the  way  for  you  ;  and  when  you  have  wealth,  when 
you  have  authority,  when  you  have  power,  let  it  not  be  said  that  you 


LORD  BEACONSFIELD.  99 

were  deficient  in  public  virtue  or  public  spirit.  When  the  torch  is 
delivered  to  you,  do  you  also  light  the  path  of  human  progress  to  edu- 
cated man." 

I  will  add  but  one  last  word.  Earthly  success  does  not  and  can  not 
satisfy.  If  any  man  be  not  at  peace  with  God,  then  wealth,  power, 
fame,  are  but  as  dust  in  the  night.  They  do  not  last :  they  are  but 
the  more  splendid  toys  of  grown-up  children.  They  are  but  emptiness, 
and  vexation  of  spirit ;  and  we  have  no  reason  to  regret  that  they  are 
beyond  the  reach  of  most  of  us. 

But  things  infinitely  more  precious  and  enduring  are  within  the 
reach  of  us  all,  —  even  peace  with  God,  and  a  conscience  void  of  offence 
towards  God  and  towards  man. 

The  energy  which  may  fail  to  win  the  rewards  which  men  envy 
may  place  us  on  a  mountain  height,  from  which  we  can  look  down  on 
the  inch-high  distinctions  of  this  passing  world. 

"  Why  do  ye  toil  to  register  your  names 
On  icy  pillars  which  soon  melt  away  ? 
True  honor  is  not  here." 


THE   PRINCE   OF   WALES  AT  HOME. 


By  ARCHIBALD   FORBES. 

WHEN  the  Prince  of  Wales  came  of  age,  nineteen  years  ago, 
there  stood  at  his  credit,  accumulated  during  his  minority  from 
the  revenues  of  the  Duchy  of  Cornwall,  an  apanage  of  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  a  sum  of  about  two  million  five  hundred  dollars.  There  is  no 
adequate  mansion  on  the  Cornish  estates  ;  and,  even  if  there  were, 
Cornwall  is  in  so  remote  a  corner  of  England  as  to  disqualify  a  man- 
sion there  for  being  a  suitable  residence  for  the  heir-apparent. 

It  was  determined  by  the  Queen  and  her  ministry  of  the  day,  of 
which  Lord  Palmerston  was  the  head,  to  invest  a  large  proportion 
of  the  prince's  minority  accumulations  in  the  purchase  of  a  landed 
estate  for  his  Royal  Highness  ;  the  conditions  being,  that  it  should  be 
within  reasonable  distance  from  London,  that  it  should  be  in  a  region 
not  apart  from  neighbors  of  position,  and  that  it  should  furnish  facilities 
for  the  preservation  of  game. 

On  the  southern  shore  of  "the  Wash,"  —  that  broad,  shallow  inlet 
which  thrusts  itself  between  the  county  of  Lincoln  on  the  north,  and 
that  of  Norfolk  on  the  south, — a  family  of  country  gentry  named 
Lloyd  had  owned  for  several  generations  an  extensive,  but  somewhat 
unprofitable  and  neglected,  estate,  called  Sandringham.  Portions  of 
its  soil  were  fertile  ;  but,  for  the  most  part,  the  land  was  sandy :  and 
great  tracts,  chiefly  on  the  higher  ground  overlooking  the  estuary,  were 
covered  with  heather,  out  of  which  grew  stunted  and  sparse  fir-trees. 

The  mansion-house  was  an  old  brick  pile,  in  a  state  of  consider- 
able dilapidation,  standing  near  the  centre  of  a  park,  which  undulated 
tamely  indeed,  but  rather  prettily,  but  which  contained  a  lake,  and  not 
a  few  fine  old  trees. 

The  estate  was  a  strictly  rural  one ;  the  nearest  town  being  Lynn 
Regis,  a  seaport  borough  of  some  size,  distant  about  eight  miles.     The 


THE  PRINCE    OF   WALES  AT  HOME.  IOI 

whole  surrounding  region,  although  it  is  purely  agricultural,  may  be 
called  one  huge,  game-preserve,  —  properties  joining  with  properties 
whose  owners  take  their  highest  pride  in  having  a  large  head  of  game 
on  their  fields  and  in  their  covers.  Norfolk  divides  with  Nottingham 
the  reputation  of  carrying  more  partridges  and  pheasants  to  the  acre 
than  any  other  county  in  England. 

This  property  of  Sandringham  was  purchased  for  the  Prince  of 
Wales.  Its  price  was  one  million  and  a  half  dollars,  and  at  least  an 
equal  amount  of  money  has  been  expended  on  it  since  it  became  the 
property  of  his  Royal  Highness.  Viewed  as  an  investment,  it  cannot 
be  called  a  success,  and,  indeed,  was  never  meant  to  be  a  success  in 
this  sense. 

Landed  property  in  England  returns  to  its  owner  an  average  of 
barely  two  and  one-half  per  cent,  but  it  may  be  questioned  whether 
the  rental  of  Sandringham  represents  a  half  per  cent  on  the  money 
which  stands  invested  in  it.  There  are  a  few  farms  besides  that  model 
farm  which  the  prince  keeps  in  his  own  hands  ;  but  the  tenants  "  sit 
easily,"  as  the  saying  is,  provided  they  make  no  complaints  as  to  the 
depredations  of  game  on  their  crops. 

So  forlorn  was  the  empty  place  —  for  the  Lloyd  family  had  died 
out  —  when  it  passed  into  the  prince's  possession,  that  an  early  visitor, 
who  went  to  inspect  it,  found  grass  growing  knee-high  in  the  stalls 
of  the  deserted  stables.  Since  that  day,  there  have  been  sweeping 
changes  :  an  all  but  new  mansion,  to  complete  which  piecemeal  cost 
three  years,  now  stands  at  the  head  of  the  gentle  slope  overlooking  the 
lake. 

The  park  has  been  all  but  remodelled.  A  great  slice  of  land  has 
been  converted  into  gardens,  which  contain  a  vast  extent  of  glass, 
whence  in  one  night  sometimes  twenty-five  hundred  dollars'  worth  of 
rare  flowers,  blossoming  in  their  pots,  are  brought  across  the  lawn  to 
decorate  the  reception-rooms  and  dining-tables.  The  landscape-gar- 
dener has  metamorphosed,  not  only  the  vicinity  of  the  mansion,  but 
the  region  within  view  from  it. 

The  heath  is  now  studded  with  flourishing  plantations  of  young 
firs,  and  enclosed  clumps  of  rarer  trees.  An  elaborately  fantastic 
summer-house,  not  inappropriately  called  the  "  Folly,"  adorns  the  sum- 
mit of  the  highest  sandy  knoll  in  the  vicinity ;  and  model  cottages 
greet  everywhere  the  eye  of  the  wayfarer  who  journeys  through  the 
hamlets  on  the  estates. 

The  mansion-house  of  Sandringham,  — the  "  Hall"  is  the  old  name 


102  THE  PRINCE    OF   WALES  AT  HOME. 

that  still  clings  to  it,  —  although  widely  differing  from  the  clumsy  old 
pile  which  it  has  succeeded,  is  in  no  sense  a  palace.  It  aims  at  being 
nothing  more  than  a  country  gentleman's  picturesque  and  commodious 
residence.  There  are  half  a  dozen  mansions  in  its  own  county  which 
surpass  it,  both  in  size  and  in  pretensions. 

It  is  a  long,  irregular  structure  of  warm  red  brick  pointed  with 
white  stone,  and  having  two  fronts,  —  one  toward  the  smooth  park, 
studded  with  great  ash  and  oak  trees ;  one  toward  the  more  broken 
ground,  in  the  hollow  of  which  lies,  among  clumps  of  ornamental 
shrubbery,  the  pretty  artificial  lake. 

The  finest  room  in  the  mansion  is  the  drawing-room,  —  a  long 
apartment,  with  a  great  bay-window  in  its  larger  section,  and  in  the 
centre  a  beautiful  piece  of  statuary  in  white  marble,  around  the  pedes- 
tal of  which  rises  a  variegated  bank  of  rare  flowers  always  in  blossom. 
At  one  end  of  the  first-floor  corridor  is  the  bedroom  of  the  royal  couple, 
the  room  in  which  the  prince  lay  during  that  long,  terrible  illness  of 
his  which  so  nearly  proved  fatal.  One  of  the  prettiest  things  in  the 
house  is  the  princess's  bath-room,  —  a  little  poem  in  white  marble  with 
blue  veins  running  through  it. 

But  the  room  at  Sandringham  is  the  large  entrance-hall,  panelled  in 
carved  wood,  and  adorned  with  old  armor  and  modern  pictures.  It  is 
the  living-room,  or,  rather,  it  may  be  said,  the  gathering-room,  of  the 
royal  circle  and  its  guests  when  the  family  is  at  Sandringham.  The 
main  door  opens  into  a  corner  of  it ;  and  opposite  the  main  door  is 
the  door  which  conducts  to  the  inner  corridor,  off  which  open  the 
dining  and  drawing  rooms.  Above  the  first  is  the  inscription,  "Albert 
Edward,  Prince  of  Wales,  and  Alexandra,  his  wife,  built  this  house." 
Above  the  second  are  the  words,  "  Dulce  domum" —  the  keynote  to 
the  family  life  at  Sandringham. 

This  saloon  is  crowded  with  the  appliances  of  every-day  life,  —  an 
open  piano,  a  half-finished  sketch  on  an  easel,  —  a  portrait,  perhaps,  by 
an  artist  visitor,  —  children's  books,  a  dainty  writing-table,  several 
work-tables,  couches,  easy-chairs,  and  a  hundred  and  one  et  ccetcras.  It 
is  the  general  lounging-room  of  the  house.  It  is  the  apartment  sacred 
to  afternoon  tea ;  and,  at  Sandringham,  afternoon  tea  is  an  institution. 

The  gentlemen  have  come  in  from  shpoting,  and  sit  or  stand  about, 
still  in  their  field-costume.  The  ladies,  home  from  driving,  or,  it  may 
be,  from  walking  with  the  guns,  grace  the  occasion  with  their  pres- 
ence. The  royal  children  are  here,  asking  frank  questions  about  the 
day's  sport,  taking  part  in  discussions  concerning  the  arrangements  for 


THE  PRINCE    OF   WALES  AT  HOME. 


103 


the  morrow,  or  listening  to  a  quaint  little  story  told  by  a  visitor  with  a 
gift  as  a  raconteur.  With  the  steam  from  the  tea  rises  the  smoke  from 
the  cigarettes ;  for  the  prince  is  an  inveterate  smoker,  and  his  guests 
willingly  follow  his  lead.  There  is  no  prettier  domestic  scene  in  all 
England  than  afternoon  tea  in  the  "saloon  "  at  Sandringham. 


The  Prince  of  Wales  at  Home. 


And  this  saloon  is  occasionally  put  to  another  duty.  Cleared  of  its 
furniture,  it  makes  a  charming  ball-room,  in  which  some  two  hundred 
or  more  have  ample  room  and  verge  enough.  A  house-ball  at  Sand- 
ringham —  always  on  a  birthday  —  is  a  great  occasion  in  Norfolk. 

The  gentlefolks  of  the  county  are  invited  impartially  ;  for,  at  Sand- 
ringham, the  prince  aims  simply  to  be  a  country  gentleman  among  his 
compeers.  Perhaps  there  is  yet  greater  "go"  and  heartiness  in  the 
annual  tenants'  ball,  which  includes  any  number  of  tenant-farmers  from 
the  neighboring  estates,  with  their  wives,  sons,  and  daughters.     Then, 


104  THE  PRINCE   OF   WALES  AT  HOME. 

there  is  a  servants'  ball,  which  is  by  no  means  confined  to  the  servants 
of  the  mansion,  but  includes  those  on  the  home-farm,  the  game- 
keepers, the  foresters,  the  cottagers  on  the  estate,  and  the  villagers 
from  Dersingham,  hard  by.  The  prince  and  princess,  with  the  "  house- 
party," —  their  visitors,  —  mix  with  cordial  good  will  and  heartiness  in 
these  gatherings  of  their  humbler  neighbors  and  dependants  ;  and 
"  Our  Master,"  as  the  prince  is  universally  styled  by  the  farming-folk 
in  the  neighborhood,  may  be  seen  leading  out  to  the  dance  a  cottager's 
"good-wife;"  while  the  princess  stands  up  with  a  burly  keeper,  the 
pleased  solemnity  of  whose  visage  is  a  sight  to  see. 

There  is  no  busier  life  in  England  than  the  ordinary  life  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  and  to  get  down  to  Sandringham  is  for  him  a  genu- 
ine holiday.  He  always  tries  to  be  there  at  certain  seasons,  — 
Easter,  Whitsuntide,  his  own  and  the  princess's  birthdays,  and  Christ- 
mas time. 

Then,  he  goes  to  Sandringham,  when  he  can  get  the  chance,  for  the 
hunting  and  the  pheasant-shooting.  The  hounds  which  hunt  the  region 
adjacent  to  Sandringham  are  kept  by  Mr.  Anthony  Hammond,  a  neigh- 
boring squire  ;  and  the  royal  family,  when  at  Sandringham,  are  always 
out  with  them  two  days  a  week. 

The  prince,  although  a  welter  weight,  —  he  must  ride  quite  two 
hundred  and  thirty  pounds,  —  is  a  good  and  fearless  rider.  I  once  saw 
him  gallop  down  a  hillside  so  steep  that  I  did  not  venture  to  follow 
him.  The  princess,  who,  owing  to  the  slight  stiffness  of  the  knee-joint 
that  supervened  on  an  illness  some  ten  years  ago,  rides  with  her  skirt 
on  the  right  side  of  the  saddle,  is  a  good  horsewoman ;  and  all  the 
royal  children  have  been  used  to  the  saddle,  almost  from  their  cradles. 
The  country  about  Sandringham  is  by  no  means  easy,  although  it  is 
comparatively  open  ;  but  neither  broken  ground  nor  fences  stop  the 
royal  party. 

On  shooting-days  in  the  covers  on  the  property,  the  princess  and 
her  lady  visitors  almost  always  drive  out  to  an  appointed  rendezvous, 
to  lunch  with  the  men,  the  luncheon  being  sent  on  from  the  house. 
Sometimes  it  is  eaten  in  the  open  air,  picnic  fashion  ;  but  more  often 
it  is  spread  in  some  farmhouse,  or  perhaps  in  one  of  the  numerous  rus- 
tic pleasure-cottages  about  the  estate.  After  luncheon,  the  ladies  often 
walk  with  the  guns  throughout  the  afternoon,  and  return  with  the  men 
to  afternoon  tea. 

Sunday  is  a  right  pleasant  day  at  Sandringham.  In  the  morning 
the  whole   house-party  walk   across  the  park  to  the  quaint  little  old 


THE  PRINCE    OE   WALES  Al   HOME.  105 

church  on  its  outskirts.  Out  in  the  little  churchyard,  among  the  graves 
of  the  country-folk,  lies  a  simple  marble  slab,  marking  where  lies 
"  John,  infant  son  of  Albert  Edward,  Prince  of  Wales,  and  of  Alex- 
andra, his  wife,"  a  child  who  died  a  few  hours  after  he  was  born.  As 
the  party  quit  the  church,  the  princess  never  fails  to  leave  it,  and  turn 
aside  for  a  moment  at  the  grave  of  her  dead  little  one. 

Near  by  this  stone  is  another,  erected  by  the  prince  to  the  mem- 
ory of  the  groom  who  lay  ill  simultaneously  with  the  prince,  of  the 
same  disorder,  and  who  died  when  the  prince  lived.  This  latter 
stone  bears  the  simple  inscription,  "  One  was  taken,  and  the  other 
left." 

The  interval  till  luncheon  is  occupied  by  a  stroll  around  the  park ; 
and,  after  luncheon,  the  party  visit  the  kennels,  and  the  menagerie, 
where  are  kept  the  wild  animals  which  are  among  the  prince's  souve- 
nirs of  his  visit  to  India.  Here  are  a  couple  of  tigers,  which,  when 
cubs,  were  the  playmates  of  the  crew  of  the  "  Osborne  "  on  her  home- 
ward voyage;  and  the  two  "baby"  elephants,  —  babies  no  longer, — 
which  the  sailors  taught  to  chew  tobacco,  and  which,  they  protested, 
had  been  educated  by  them  so  highly  that  they  could  do  any  thing  but 
speak.  The  peregrination  finishes  with  tea  in  the  princess's  pretty 
dairy-cottage,  where  the  party  are  served  with  butter  which  her  Royal 
Highness  may  have  churned  the  day  before. 

An  off-day  at  Sandringham  is  one  of  the  prince's  greatest  enjoy- 
ments. After  breakfast  he  goes  into  his  study,  — a  little  room  off  the 
entrance-hall,  hung  with  the  "Vanity  Fair"  caricatures  of  his  friends, 
and  with  countless  sporting-sketches.  Here  he  is  joined  by  Mr.  Beck, 
his  land-steward,  who  gives  him  an  account  of  the  doings  at  the  home- 
farm,  —  how  the  short-horns  and  Devons  are  ripening  for  exhibition  at 
the  great  Smithfield  show ;  and  how  the  Southdowns,  that  are  meant 
to  cope  with  the  champion  sheep  from  the  Goodwood  and  Lord  Wal- 
singham's  flocks,  are  laying  on  mutton. 

Then  the  head  keeper  touches  his  forelock  as  he  comes  in  to  report 
on  the  grouse  experiment,  or  to  explain  the  scheme  of  next  day's  cam- 
paign against  the  long-tails.  After  a  pleasant  word  or  two  with  one 
of  his  tenant-farmers,  who  wants  a  new  barn,  the  prince  gets  on  his 
pony,  and,  with  Beck  and  the  forester  walking  by  his  side,  he  starts  on 
an  excursion  among  his  plantations,  discussing,  as  they  go,  the  need 
for  thinning  the  "  Cocked-Hat  Wood,"  or  keeping  the  rabbits  out  of  a 
recent  clump  of  foreign  shrubs.  A  visit  to  the  farm  follows,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course ;  and  the  prince  tramps  through  the  byres,  punching  the 


106  THE  PRINCE   OF   WALES  AT  HOME. 

ribs  of  the  fattening  oxen,  and  knowingly  delving  with  his  fist  among 
the  wool  on  the  backs  of  the  Southdowns. 

Meanwhile  the  princess  is  among  her  cottagers  down  at  Newton, 
encouraging  the  women-folk  to  vie  with  each  other  in  the  cleanliness 
of  their  pretty  habitations,  distributing  comforts  among  the  ailing,  and 
looking  in  upon  the  little  ones  at  the  school,  which  she  and  her  hus- 
band maintain  for  the  behoof  of  the  laboring  folk  on  the  estate. 

In  fine,  there  is  no  comelier  or  wholesomer  domestic  life  than  that 
enjoyed  by  the  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales  when  they  are  under  their 
own  rural  roof-tree  down  at  Sandringham. 


THE  THREE  DAUGHTERS  OF  THE 
PRINCESS  OF  WALES. 


By  NUGENT  ROBINSON. 

"  '  I  ^"HERE  is  luck  in  odd  numbers." 

J-  This  is  the  expression  invariably  used  by  his  Royal  Highness 
the  Prince  of  Wales,  when  referring  to  his  five  children,  —  his  two 
boys,  and  three  girls. 

The  eldest  son,  born  on  the  8th  of  January,  1864,  was  christened 
Albert  Victor  Christian  Edward.  If  he  lives,  and  the  monarchy 
stands,  he  will  ascend  the  throne  under  the  title  of  Edward  VII. 

George  Frederick  Ernest  came  next,  on  the  3d  of  June,  1865. 
After  George,  Louisa  Victoria  Alexandra  Dagmar  was  born  on  the  20th 
of  February,  1867.  On  the  6th  of  July,  1868,  Victoria  Alexandra  Olga 
Marie  was  born  ;  and,  finally,  on  the  26th  of  November,  1869,  was  born 
Maude  Charlotte  Marie  Victoria. 

Her  Royal  Highness  the  Princess  Louisa  is  the  most  amiable  of 
the  three,  and  is  a  miniature  copy  of  her  mother ;  the  Princess  Vic- 
toria, her  father's  pet,  has  a  temper  of  her  own,  —  impetuous,  ardent, 
hot,  smiling  through  tears  like  a  sunbeam  in  showers  ;  while  Maude, 
whom  Queen  Victoria  idolizes,  has  a  disposition  somewhat  like  that  of 
her  right  royal  grandmamma. 

None  of  the  princesses  fear  the  Queen ;  although  everybody  else 
has  a  wholesome  dread  of  her  Most  Gracious  Majesty,  who  is  as  exact- 
ing as  she  is  severe.  The  daughters  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  after  the 
first  formal  deep  courtesy  down  to  the  ground  is  made,  romp  with  their 
grandmother  as  they  would  with  one  of  the  gouvemantes ;  and  it  is  a 
matter  of  apprehension  to  the  Dowager  Marchioness  of  Ely,  who,  with 
the  exception  of  the  late  Duchess  of  Sutherland,  —  the  Grand  Duchess, 
—  is  most  intimate  with   the  sovereign,  when    the    young    princesses 


I08      THE  DAUGHTERS   OF  THE  PRINCESS   OF   WALES. 


pounce  upon  the  Queen,  and  dare  to  pull  about  the  ruler  of  an  empire 

upon  which  the  sun  never  sets. 

The  Princess  Louisa  is  the  most  talented,  the  Princess  Maude  the 

smartest.  All  three  have  a  talent  for  languages,  and  are  always  de- 
lighted when  their 
uncle,  the  Crown 
Prince  of  Denmark, 
is  with  them ;  as 
then  they  chat  in 
Danish.  He  is  said 
to  be  their  prime 
favorite  ;  and,  as 
they  dearly  love  a 
romp,  the  good- 
tempered  uncle  in- 
dulges them  with 
the  e'lan  of  a  lad  of 
fifteen. 

The  princesses 
are  all  musical,  in- 
heriting this  taste 
from  their  mother, 
who  is  a  superb 
pianiste,  but  who 
never  plays  outside 
of  her  own  imme- 
diate family  circle. 
She  is  a  devout  fol- 
lower of  Rubin- 
stein,  and  performs 
that  wonderful 
waltz  after  a  fashion 
that  would  have  en- 


The  Daughters  of  the  Princess  of  Wales. 


chanted  the  maestro,  could  he  but  have  had  the  privilege  of  hearing  her 
play  it. 

The  Princess  of  Wales  carefully  watches  the  musical  education  of  her 
daughters  ;  and  nearly  every  day,  after  Mademoiselle  Gaymard-Pacini, 
the  premiere  pianiste  of  the  age,  who  is  their  instructress,  has  concluded 
her  lesson,  she  asks  how  each  demoiselle  acquitted  herself.  The  prince 
is  no  musician.     "  I  leave  all  that  sort  of  thing  to  Edinburgh,"  he  laughs. 


THE  DAUGHTERS    OF  THE  PRINCESS   OF   WALES.       109 

Once,  not  long  since,  it  is  said  that  Mademoiselle  Gaymard-Pacini 
had  to  complain  of  the  inattention  of  the  Princess  Victoria.  This  was 
on  the  grand  staircase  at  Marlborough  House.  The  Princess  of  Wales 
was  naturally  very  much  grieved,  and  begged  of  mademoiselle  to  be  as 
rigid  as  buckram.  The  princess  passed  down  ;  and  mademoiselle 
passed  up-stairs,  to  be  received  by  the  Princess  Victoria,  who  had  been 
listening  on  the  balusters,  with  a  torrent  of  reproaches. 

The  young  princesses  having  been  promised  a  visit  to  the  Tower 
of  London  in  May  last,  which  they  were  nearly  crazy  to  see,  the  Rev. 
Teignmouth  Shore,  one  of  the  Queen's  chaplains,  and  chief  editor  of 
Cassell,  Petter,  &  Galpin's  great  publishing-house,  was  ordered  to  act 
as  their  escort. 

"I  won't  go  if  I  can't  go  like  any  other  little  girl,"  said  the  Prin- 
cess Maude.  "  I  hate  to  have  great  big  soldiers  saluting,  and  every- 
body bowing  down  to  the  ground.  It's  no  fun,  and  I  want  to  go  like 
any  other  little  girl." 

The  Princess  Maude  carried  the  clay,  having  been  warmly  supported 
by  her  sisters  ;  and  the  happy  trio  did  the  Tower  "like  any  other  little 
girls,"  to  their  unbounded  satisfaction. 

The  princesses  are  made  to  keep  early  hours.  Five  a.m.,  in  sum- 
mer, finds  them  out  of  their  beds,  and  in  flannel  suits  for  calisthenics. 
Their  breakfast  is  very  simple,  —  as  much  stirabout,  oaten  meal  and 
milk,  as  they  like  to  eat.  No  hot  rolls,  no  heavy  meats,  consequently 
no  dyspepsia.  Their  dinner  at  two  is  equally  plain,  —  a  nutritious 
soup,  a  fish  and  a  joint,  with  vegetables,  and  one  pie  or  pudding. 

Their  greatest  dissipation  is  waiting  up  to  help  dress  mamma  for 
a  ball. 

The  prince,  when  away,  writes  to  each  of  the  girls  in  turn.  The 
writer  was  amused  at  seeing  a  letter,  —  a  charming,  affectionate  letter 
too,  —  on  the  envelope  of  which  was  written,  — 

H.  R.  H., 
The  Princess  Victoria  of  Wales, 
A.  E.  Sandringham. 

And  although  the  initials  of  the  heir  to  the  throne  were  in  the  left- 
hand  corner,  because  he  had  failed  to  attach  two  postage-stamps  instead 
of  one,  the  post-office  stamp  2d,  for  the  extra  weight,  was  sprawled  all 
over  the  envelope.     What  radical  but  will  rejoice  at  this  ! 

The  letters  from  their  brothers  while  cruising  in  the  "  Bacchante  " 
are  always  sources   of   unbounded    delight    to    the   young   princesses. 


no      THE  DAUGHTERS   OF  THE  PRINCESS   OF   WALES. 

George  is  the  favorite ;  and  such  exclamations  as,  "  Oh,  won't  we  have 
fun  when  George  comes  back ! "  "  What  romps  we'll  have  with 
George  ! "  were  to  be  heard  all  through  July,  both  at  Marlborough 
House  and  Osborne,  whither  the  little  ladies  were  invited  to  assist  at 
the  debarkation  at  Cowes. 

The  princesses  are  incessant  talkers.  They  rattle  away  from  rosy 
morn  to  dewy  eve ;  and  the  resident  governesses,  extremely  elegant 
ladies,  are  occasionally  driven  to  the  verge  of  despair  by  the  incessant 
prattle  of  these  little  royalties.  The  elder  governess  they  call  "  Mam," 
the  younger  "  Selle,"  dexterously  cutting  the  word  mademoiselle  in  two. 

They  are  admirable  mimics  ;  and  every  new  "  swell  "  who  arrives, 
is  pretty  certain  to  have  his  or  her  "precious  weakness"  admirably 
reproduced  by  these  natural  and  charming  children. 

They  are  very  fond,  like  other  children,  of  inspecting  visitors  from 
the  regions  of  the  staircase  ;  and  a  favorite  rarely  escapes  without  some 
furtive  recognition.  When  enfamille,  the  young  princesses  are  always 
despatched  by  their  parents  for  the  wraps  of  the  guests  when  the 
latter  are  about  to  take  their  departure. 

"  Louise,  run  and  get  Lady  So-and-so  her  cloak." 

"  Maude,  where  is  Mrs. shawl  ?  " 

"Victoria,  go  and  find  the  duchess's  wrap." 

The  Christmas  pantomime  is  looked  forward  to  for  six  months,  and 
fondly  recollected  for  the  rest  of  the  year.  The  facetiousness  of  the 
clown  is  admirably  reproduced,  while  the  knocks-down  received  by  the 
enduring  and  ever  amiable  pantaloon  are  practised  with  scrupulous 
fidelity.  It  is  after  the  witnessing  of  the  pantomime  that  the  gover- 
nesses have  to  call  upon  all  their  reserves,  in  order  to  bring  under 
control  the  explosive  animal  spirits  of  these  healthy  young  misses. 

One  morning  last  winter  the  three  princesses  were  taking  an  air- 
ing in  the  home-park,  attended  as  usual.  An  itinerary  vender  of 
oranges  and  apples  was  pushing  his  cart  along,  when  he  was  perceived 
by  the  young  ladies,  and  the  whisper  passed,  — 

"  What  fun  to  buy  some  oranges  !  " 

To  ask  the  attendants  were  both  a  thankless  and  useless  task. 
Where  was  the  necessary  penny  ?  Maude  was  the  proud  possessor  of 
sixpence.  The  plan  of  operation  was  speedily  arranged.  Her  Royal 
Highness  the  Princess  Maude  was  to  drop  behind,  dart  to  the  cart, 
make  the  purchase,  and  return  to  her  place. 

The  attention  of  the  attendants  was  artfully  diverted  to  some 
remote  object  :   the   Princess  Maude  lagged  behind,  and,  as  the  cart 


THE  DAUGHTERS   OF  THE  PRINCESS   OF   WALES.      Ill 

approached,  stopped,  presented  her  sixpence,  and  snatched  three  bloom- 
ing oranges  from  the  willing  hands  of  the  vender,  who  little  imagined 
he  had  just  disposed  of  a  portion  of  his  stock  at  a  royal  price  to  the 
granddaughter  of  his  Queen. 

And  weren't  those  oranges  sweeter  than  any  ever  presented  from 
the  forcing-houses  of  the  palaces  ? 

The  Princess  of  Wales  dresses  her  daughters  in  the  plainest  pos- 
sible way,  —  calicoes,  ginghams,  muslins,  and  flannel  being  de  rigueur. 
No  corsets,  no  tightness  of  any  kind  ;  and  as  for  ornaments,  such  as 
rings,  earrings,  or  bracelets,  her  Royal  Highness  would  be  astounded 
if  such  an  idea  were  so  much  as  mooted. 

She  is  very  particular  about  having  the  girls  instructed  in  sewing, 
embroidery,  and  all  manner  of  woman's  domestic  work,  and  continually 
holds  up  her  sister-in-law  Lome  as  a  model  in  that  respect. 

Little  does  the  passer-by  imagine,  as  he  glances  up  at  the  lightest 
window  of  Marlborough  House,  that  behind  the  blind  is  seated  the 
future  Queen  of  England,  lovingly  surrounded  by  her  daughters,  to 
whom  she  is  reading  some  refined  and  instructive  story ;  while  her  hus- 
band, his  cigar  in  his  mouth,  gazes  at  this  home-picture  with  a  pleasure 
appreciated  only  by  a  father's  love. 


KING  AND  QUEEN   OF  DENMARK. 


By  CARL  STEEN   DE  BILLE.' 

I. 

MOST  of  the  dynasties  that  now  occupy  thrones  in  Europe  can 
carry  the  history  of  their  advent  to  the  purple  many  centuries 
back.     But  the  royal  house  of  Denmark  is  a  remarkable  exception. 

When  the  present  King  Christian  IX. — now  the  sovereign  of  one 
of  Europe's  oldest,  and  at  the  same  time  smallest,  kingdoms,  himself 
the  father  of  one  king,  one  empress,  and  of  the  princess  nearest  to 
Great  Britain's  throne  —  was  born,  on  April  8,  1818,  he  was  the 
younger  son  of  one  of  those  princely  families  which  have  by  the  his- 
torical development  been  reduced,  from  small  dukedoms  and  marqui- 
sates,  to  relative  poverty  and  insignificance. 

The  members  of  the  house  of  Holstein-Sonderborg-Gliicksborg-Beck 
had  royal  blood  in  their  veins  ;  but  all  that  was  left  them  of  former 
greatness  was  the  long  name  enumerating  the  possessions  they  once 
had  owned  or  laid  claim  to.  Young  Prince  Christian  of  Glucksborg 
had  to  work  his  own  way  in  life  ;  and,  according  to  the  traditions  of 
the  family,  he  chose  a  military  career,  entering  as  a  lieutenant  in  the 
Royal  Horse-Guards,  a  dashing  and  splendidly  uniformed  cavalry  regi- 
ment, forming  the  favorite  body-guard  of  the  King  of  Denmark,  at  that 
time  old  King  Frederick  VI. 

He  had  reached  the  rank  and  pay  of  captain  when,  in  1842,  he 
married  in  Copenhagen  the  Princess  Louise  of  Hesse-Cassel,  a  distant 
relative  of  his,  and  very  nearly  of  his  own  age.  It  was  in  every 
respect  a  love-match.  Both  were  young,  handsome,  and  full  of  hope. 
They  loved,  and  they  married,  trusting  to  Providence,  little  dreaming 
at  the  time  of  the  high  destinies  reserved  to  them  in  the  not  distant 

1  Danish  minister  at  Washington. 


KING  AND    QUEEN  OE  DENMARK. 


"3 


future.  The  marriage  was,  and  ever  since  has  been,  a  most  happy 
one ;  in  every  respect,  a  model  of  an  honest,  loving  household. 

Two  sons  and  two  daughters  were  born  to  them  in  the  first  five 
years  of  their  marriage. 

The  prince-captain  and  his  princess-wife  had  to  shift  as  well  as  they 
could  in  order  to  make  both  ends  meet,  and  they  managed  to  solve  the 


The  King  and  Queen  of  Denmark. 


problem  in  a  way  that  won  them  general  esteem  and  admiration.  Hus- 
band and  wife  learned,  during  this  period,  to  appreciate  the  struggles, 
the  cares,  the  joys,  and  the  sorrows,  of  ordinary  human  life.  They  have 
never  forgotten  the  teachings  of  these  humble  and  happy  years  ;  and  to 
them  they  owe  many  of  the  qualities  which  have  since  endeared  them 
to  their  people,  and  united  their  hearts  with  the  Danish  nation's  heart. 


1 14         KING  AND    QUEEN  OE  DENMARK. 

The  year  of  1848,  that  swept  Europe  by  an  irresistible  current  of 
popular  rising,  was  eventful  for  Denmark.  Two  of  the  provinces  of 
the  kingdom,  the  Duchies  of  Slesvig  and  Holstein,  the  population 
of  which  was,  by  a  great  majority,  German,  revolted  against  the  au- 
thority of  the  Danish  king,  and  were  supported  by  Germany  and 
Prussia.  The  house  of  Gliicksborg  had  sprung  from  these  duchies,  and 
nearly  all  its  members  sided  with  the  rebellion  against  the  king.  Only 
Prince  Christian  remained  faithful  to  his  allegiance  and  his  oath.  He 
drew  his  sword  on  his  sovereign's  side,  and  served  with  all  honor  under 
the  Danish ^lag  during  the  three  years'  war  that  ended  with  the  crush- 
ing of  the  insurrection. 

This  fidelity  soon  found  a  reward.  On  the  throne  of  Denmark  was 
then  sitting  King  Frederick  VII.,  the  last  scion  of  the  dynasty  of 
Oldenborg,  which  had  for  full  four  centuries  reigned  over  that  king- 
dom, and,  for  a  great  part  of  the  time,  also  over  Norway.  King  Fred- 
erick VII.  had  been  married  twice,  but  had  no  children.  It  became 
necessary  to  provide  for  the  succession  to  the  throne  ;  and,  as  the 
integrity  and  preservation  of  the  Danish  monarchy  was  a  matter  of 
high  interest  to  all  European  Powers,  the  settlement  had  to  be  arranged 
by  and  with  their  advice  and  consent. 

Among  the  candidates  to  the  throne,  Prince  Christian  soon  occu- 
pied the  first  place.  His  own  family  relations  did  not  give  him  any 
near  claim  ;  but  his  wife  was,  through  her  mother,  a  born  Princess  of 
Denmark,  in  close  relationship  to  the  king.  But,  more  than  any  right 
of  pedigree,  it  was  the  general  high  regard  for  the  princely  couple,  and 
the  sincere  respect  for  their  moral  qualities,  that  lifted  them  to  the 
vacant  place  of  heirs-presumptive  to  the  throne  of  Denmark.  In  1852 
a  treaty  was  concluded  in  London  between  the  great  Powers,  designat- 
ing Prince  Christian  of  Gliicksborg  as  successor  to  Frederick  VII.  ; 
and,  in  1853,  a  bill  passed  the  Danish  Parliament  confirming  the 
nomination. 

In  their  new,  and  in  many  respects  very  delicate,  position,  Prince 
Christian  of  Denmark,  as  he  was  now  called,  and  Princess  Louise, 
continued  to  exhibit  the  same  distinguished  qualities  that  had  marked 
them  as  the  Danish  people's  choice.  Surrounded  by  more  splendor, 
their  household  and  domestic  life  still  kept  within  the  same  groove  of 
honesty  and  happiness. 

One  son  and  one  daughter  more  were  born  to  them  during  this 
period.  It  was  also  before  their  actual  advent  to  the  throne,  in  March, 
1863,    that    their    eldest    daughter,    Princess    Alexandra,    married    the 


KING  AND    QUEEN   OE  DENMARK.  1 15 

Prince  of  Wales,  and  that  their  second  son,  William,  was  elected  King 
of  the  Greeks,  under  the  name  of  George  I.  The  marriage  of  the  sec- 
ond daughter,  Princess  Dagmar,  to  the  Grand  Duke  Alexander,  now 
the  Emperor  of  all  the  Russias,  took  place  some  years  later. 

The  peculiar  charm  of  Princess  Alexandra,  from  her  very  child- 
hood, has  been  a  womanly  grace,  which  has  instinctively  won  all  hearts 
around  her.  She  is  thoroughly  well  educated,  speaks  with  ease  and 
elegance  four  languages,  and  possesses  a  good  deal  of  solid  knowledge ; 
but  she  never  makes  any  show  of  these  accomplishments,  and  they  are 
overshone  by  her  kind  heart  and  deep  womanly  feeling. 

Her  handsome  features  and  tranquil  beauty  are  the  mirror  of  a 
corresponding  mind.  She  moves  with  equal  ease  and  grace  in  the 
most  different  circles,  is  as  friendly  and  sympathetic  to  the  peasant 
she  meets  on  the  road  as  to  the  lord  who  is  bowing  to  her  in  the  gilded 
palace.  Naturally  inclined  to  a  serious  turn  of  mind,  she  can  be  glad, 
and  even  merry,  with  those  who  are  dear  to  her. 

Such  she  was  as  a  child  and  young  girl,  and  such  she  remains  as  the 
Princess  of  Wales.  It  is  the  combination  of  these  qualities  that  have 
made  her  so  generally  beloved  in  English  society,  exclusive  and  exact- 
ing as  it  is,  and  obtained  for  her  a  popularity  equalling  that  of  Queen 
Victoria  herself. 

She  was  hardly  eighteen  when  she  was  betrothed  to  Prince  Albert 
Edward  of  Wales,  three  years  her  senior.  The  Prince-Consort  had 
then  died,  and  left  the  Queen  of  England  a  disconsolate  widow ;  but 
it  is  believed,  that,  several  years  before,  he  had  contemplated  the  match 
as  the  fittest  for  the  heir  to  England's  throne,  and  one  which  offered 
the  best  guaranty  for  mutual  happiness  and  a  vigorous  progeniture. 
The  choice  was  made  for  policy  and  state-craft,  but  the  tenderer  feel- 
ings of  the  young  people  were  not  excluded  ;  and,  before  any  thing 
was  settled,  the  opportunity  was  offered  them  to  become  acquainted, 
and  to  prove  their  own  hearts. 

The  result  conformed  to  the  wishes  of  the  parents  ;  and  in  March, 
1863,  the  young  princess  left  the  land  of  her  birth  to  accept  the  higher 
destinies  waiting  for  her.  A  few  days  after,  on  March  10,  1863,  the 
wedding  took  place  with  great  splendor,  and  with  no  less  enthusiasm. 
More  than  twenty  years  have  now  passed  since  that  day ;  and  it  may 
be  truly  said,  that  at  no  moment  during  this  entire  period  has  the 
princess  lost  in  the  love  or  the  sympathetic  respect  of  the  British  peo- 
ple. Her  popularity  has  every  year  sent  deeper  roots  into  the  hearts 
of  the  nation. 


Il6  ROYAL    CHILDREN  OF  DENMARK. 

The  Princess  of  Wales  is  still  one  of  the  handsomest  ladies  in 
English  society.  She  has  preserved  her  tall  and  slender  figure,  her 
complexion  is  still  fair,  her  eyes  have  the  same  kind  sparkle,  and  her 
beautiful  hair  has  the  same  natural  and  artless  fall.  She  does  not  look 
her  age.  Some  years  ago  she  was  attacked  by  a  disease  that  left  a 
stiffness  in  one  of  her  knee-joints,  and  this  somewhat  impedes  her 
movements. 

During  the  London  season,  when  Hyde  Park  is  full  of  splendid 
carriages  and  prancing  teams,  and  when  Rotten  Row  is  crowded  with 
ladies  and  gentlemen  on  horseback,  the  princess  generally  takes  a  drive 
through  the  park  from  Marlborough  House,  her  residence,  accompanied 
by  one  or  two  of  her  daughters,  who  are  fast  growing  up  to  promising 
womanhood.  Her  carriage  is  unpretending,  almost  plain  ;  but  no  spec- 
tator could  fail  to  observe  it  as  it  passes  along,  greeted  by  the  deep 
bows  of  the  ladies,  and  the  uncovering  of  all  the  gentlemen. 


II. 

ROYAL  CHILDREN   OF   DENMARK. 

The  second  son  of  the  King  and  Queen  of  Denmark  is  George, 
now  King  of  the  Hellenes.  He  was  born  on  the  24th  of  December, 
1845,  nearly  a  year  after  the  Princess  Alexandra,  and  was  christened 
Christian  Vilhelm  Ferdinand  Adolph  George,  but  called  Vilhelm. 

A  brighter,  merrier  boy  could  not  be  found  in  Copenhagen.  He 
was  brimful  of  fun,  and  was  the  delight  and  the  despair  of  his  parents 
and  tutors.  But  he  possessed  an  excellent  heart,  and  was  the  declared 
pet  of  the  household.  His  character  and  abilities  clearly  predisposed 
him  for  the  navy,  the  favorite  service  of  Denmark  ;  and,  at  the  age  of 
twelve,  he  became,  after  as  severe  a  test  as  any  of  the  aspirants,  a 
cadet  of  the  naval  academy. 

He  was  eminently  popular  among  his  fellow-cadets,  and  well  liked 
by  his  teachers,  who  always  addressed  him  plainly  as  "Mr.  Vilhelm." 

After  school-hours  he  loved  to  stroll  with  some  "  chum  "  in  the 
back  streets  of  the  town,  in  order  to  study  the  every-day  life  of  the 
common  people.  Once,  after  having  fondly  scanned  a  dish  of  fried 
fish  exhibited  in  the  window  of  a  third-rate  dining-room,  he  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  enter ;  and  he  asked  for  as  large  a  slice  of  the 
fish  as  his  scanty  pocket-money  would  buy. 


ROYAL    CHILDREN  OF  DENMARK.  117 

To  his  youthful  fancy,  honors  and  rank  in  the  Danish  navy  stood 
then  at  the  utmost  goal.  As  second  son  of  the  then  heir-apparent, 
he  could  not  aspire  to  any  higher  position,  and  the  chance  of  a  regal 
crown  seemed  so  distant  as  not  to  be  worth  a  thought. 

It  was  the  wedding  of  his  sister,  Princess  Alexandra,  to  the  Prince 
of  Wales  in  March,  1863,  that  accidentally  made  him  a  candidate  for 
the  throne  of  Greece.  King  Otho  of  the  royal  house  of  Bavaria  had, 
after  more  than  thirty  years  of  struggles  and  contests  with  the  unruly 
Hellenic  people,  been  deposed,  and  expelled  from  the  kingdom.  The 
Greeks  had  offered  the  vacant  throne  to  scions  of  different  royal 
houses,  to  princes  of  Great  Britain  and  of  Russia ;  but  such  was  the 
state  of  mutual  jealousy  among  the  great  Powers  of  Europe,  that  no 
prince  connected  with  one  of  them  could  be  allowed  to  accept.  In 
this  predicament  the  marriage  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  took  place ;  and, 
during  the  ceremonies,  the  eyes  of  Lord  Russell,  who  was  then  foreign 
minister  of  England,  fell  upon  the  young  and  lively  Danish  midship- 
man, standing  close  to  his  handsome  sister.  He  was  a  boy  of  hardly 
eighteen,  but  he  had  the  royal  blood  in  his  veins ;  and,  at  the  same 
time,  he  belonged  to  a  country  which  could  derive  no  political  advan- 
tage from  any  turn  in  the  complicated  Oriental  question. 

Lord  Russell,  after  communicating  with  his  colleagues,  broached 
the  idea  to  the  Queen  and  to  the  young  man's  parents,  and  was  encour- 
aged. Prince  Vilhelm  himself,  when  the  matter  was  laid  before  him, 
hesitated  a  moment,  as  it  was  only  natural  that  he  should,  but  then, 
with  courage  and  high-spirited  ambition,  accepted,  leaving  his  father 
and  the  Danish  Government  to  settle  the  conditions.  One  of  these 
was,  that  Great  Britain  should  cede  the  Ionian  Islands,  over  which  she 
had,  since  the  peace  of  Vienna,  maintained  a  kind  of  protectorate,  so 
that  the  new  king  could  bring  these  beautiful  possessions  as  a  dowry 
to  his  future  subjects. 

For  the  King  of  Greece,  the  name  of  George,  dear  to  the  popular 
fancy,  and  connected  with  religious  notions,  was  considered  fitter  than 
that  of  Vilhelm  ;  and  it  was  accordingly  adopted. 

The  history  of  Greece  since  his  advent  has  been  troublesome 
enough,  and  the  king  has  not  been  bedded  on  roses.  The  Hellenes 
are  not  easily  governed.  They  are  a  fitful  and  passionate  people  ;  and 
the  constitution  of  the  kingdom  seems  to  be  more  calculated  to  foster 
political  intrigue  and  party-fights,  than  to  promote  the  practical  inter- 
ests, and  to  develop  the  resources,  of  the  country. 

King  George  has  faithfully  and  loyally  steered  his  way  through  the 


Il8  ROYAL    CHILDREN   OF  DENMARK. 

storms  and  squalls.  As  a  constitutional  sovereign,  he  has  followed 
the  impulses  of  the  national  will,  but,  at  the  same  time,  protected 
Greece  against  dangers,  sometimes  even  against  herself. 

He  has  fully  and  entirely  identified  himself  with  his  people,  has 
adopted  their  nationality,  their  language,  their  aspirations.  Recently 
he  has  been  able  to  extend  the  frontiers  without  entering  into  any  war, 
and  to  add  to  the  kingdom  some  long-coveted  provinces  where  Greek 
is  spoken.  What  he  obtained,  after  many  months  of  patient  work,  was 
not  all  that  the  Hellenes  wanted  to  get  ;  and  a  part  of  his  subjects  are 
more  inclined  to  fret  for  the  Greek-speaking  territories  still  retained 
in  the  grasp  of  the  Sultan,  than  to  rejoice  over  those  liberated  from  it. 

In  the  cares  and  anxieties  of  regal  duty,  King  George  has  a  faith- 
ful and  sympathetic  helpmate  in  his  wife.  Queen  Olga,  the  daughter 
of  Grand  Duke  Constantine  of  Russia,  is  only  a  little  over  thirty. 
They  were  married  in  October,  1867,  and  have  a  family  of  seven  chil- 
dren, of  whom  four  are  boys. 

The  domestic  life  of  the  King  and  Queen  of  Greece  is  as  happy 
as  it  can  be.  They  are  keeping  up  the  good  traditions  which  each  of 
them  has  received  from  the  paternal  home.  Queen  Olga  is  as  cheerful 
and  lively  as  her  husband.  With  the  remarkable  linguistic  talent  pe- 
culiar to  the  Russians,  she  has  mastered,  not  only  the  Hellenic,  but 
also  the  Danish,  language. 

The  young  couple  and  their  children  often  visit  Copenhagen,  and 
there  have  an  opportunity  to  see  and  to  live  with  their  cousins  of 
England,  of  Russia,  and  of  Denmark.  No  home  can  be  merrier  or 
happier  than  is  the  Danish  Court,  when  children  and  grandchildren 
from  Copenhagen,  St.  Petersburg,  London,  and  Athens,  gather  there 
around  King  Christian  and  Queen  Louise. 

The  second  daughter  of  the  King  and  Queen  of  Denmark  is  now 
Empress  of  Russia.  As  the  Princess  Dagmar,  she  was  much  like  her 
brother,  the  present  King  of  Greece.  She  was  the  favorite  of  the 
merry  young  midshipman,  his  confidante,  and  his  mate  in  his  freaks. 

When  hardly  more  than  seventeen,  she  was  betrothed  to  the  eldest 
son  of  Czar  Alexander  II.,  the  hereditary  Grand  Duke  Nicolas.  It 
was  a  match  in  which  the  reasons  of  policy  and  state-craft  were  more 
consulted  than  the  individual  feelings  of  the  parties.  The  grand  duke 
was  sickly,  and  of  a  melancholy  turn  of  mind.  Still,  he  possessed  so 
many  solid  qualities,  and  so  amiable  a  character,  that  he  would,  no 
doubt,  in  time  have  won  the  love  of  his  young  bride.  Shortly  after 
the  engagement,  however,  he  was  taken  ill,  was  carried  to  Nice ;  and 


ROYAL    CHILDREN   OF  DENMARK. 


II9 


there,  in  spite  of  the  mild  climate  and  the  high  medical  skill  surround- 
ing him,  he  died  in  April,  1865. 

His  betrothed  had  been  summoned  to  his  death-bed,  where  she 
shared  with  his  mother,  the  empress,  the  mournful  watches  ;  and  it  is 
said  that  one  of  the  last  wishes  of  the  dying  prince  was  that  of  seeing 


King  George  of  Greece  and  the  Empress  of 
Russia. 


his  brother  Alexander  succeed,  not  only  to  his  place  on  the  steps  of 
the  throne,  but  also  to  the  matrimonial  bliss  which  he  himself  was  not 
to  enjoy. 

However  that  might  be,  the  young  people,  who  had  met  for  the 
first  time  over  a  grave,  felt  a  deep  mutual  attachment ;  and,  a  little 
more  than  a  year  after,  they  were  engaged. 

The  event  happened  in  quite  a  romantic  way.  On  a  splendid  day 
in  early  June,  1866,  the  royal  family  of  Denmark  made  an  excursion 
with  their  guest,  the  Russian  grand  duke,  from  the  summer  palace  of 


120  ROYAL    CHILDREN  OF  DENMARK. 

Fredensborg  to  a  place  near  the  Sound,  called  the  house  of  Julebek. 
It  is  nothing  but  a  small  forester's  cottage,  surrounded  by  tall  beeches, 
and  almost  hidden  in  blooming  shrubs.  But,  from  this  spot,  there  opens 
the  most  splendid  view  over  the  Sound,  always  covered  with  white 
sails  and  smoking  funnels,  to  the  verdant  shore  of  Southern  Sweden 
opposite :  and  this  ever-changing  panorama  is  bordered  to  the  left  by 
the  softly  rounded  heights  of  the  Kullen  Mountains  ;  and,  to  the  right, 
by  the  square  masses  and  lofty  spires  of  Kronborg  Castle,  to  which  the 
genius  of  Shakspeare,  if  not  the  prose  of  history,  has  forever  attached 
the  fancy-figures  of  melancholy  Hamlet,  and  fair,  unhappy  Ophelia. 
Here  it  was  that  the  vow  was  offered  and  taken. 

In  the  fall  of  1866  Princess  Dagmar,  who,  with  the  Greek  Catholic 
faith,  had  adopted  the  name  of  Maria  Feodorowna,  left  Copenhagen  in 
a  royal  steamer,  and,  some  days  after,  landed  in  Peterhof,  where  she 
was  received,  not  only  with  the  splendor  peculiar  to  the  gorgeous  Rus- 
sian Court,  but  also  with  real  popular  enthusiasm.  The  wedding  took 
place  on  Nov.  9. 

Five  children  are  living  of  those  granted  to  her  and  her  husband, 
the  youngest  born  in  the  summer  of  1882.  The  eldest  son,  Grand 
Duke  Nicolas,  now  the  heir-apparent  to  the  throne,  is  said  to  be  most 
like  his  mother,  —  bright  and  lively,  very  fond  of  all  kinds  of  sport. 


THE    KING   OF    BAVARIA. 


By  MRS.  JOHN  LILLIE. 

I. 

ALONG  time  ago,  I  remember  receiving  from  a  friend  in  Munich 
a  letter,  giving  an  account  of  the  boyish  sovereign  of  Bavaria. 
My  friend  had  met  him.  He  impressed  her  as  being  all  that  was  gra- 
cious and  royal.  He  was  rather  melancholy.  His  moods  were  very 
capricious,  and  it  was  well  known  that  even  then  he  had  broken  off 
two  or  three  alliances  the  state  had  in  view  for  him  ;  but  his  passionate 
love  of  music,  poetry,  and  art  gave  him  a  special  charm.  He  was  de- 
voted to  Wagner,  a  composer  then  little  known  or  cared  for  beyond 
his  native  Bavaria.  He  welcomed  poets  to  his  court.  He  spent  hours 
a  day  with  his  books  and  his  music,  and  was  certainly  regarded  in  those 
days  with  admiration,  within  and  without  his  own  court. 

It  was,  I  think,  a  little  later  than  this  that  the  melancholy  young 
prince  had  the  one  love-affair  of  his  life.  His  fancy  rested  on  a  lady 
of  rank  whom  he  would  have  married  but  for  an  unfortunate  disagree- 
ment arising  between  them,  and  which,  however  unjustly,  convinced 
the  king  that  she  was  unworthy  of  his  choice.  Since  then,  many  sug- 
gestions have  been  made  to  him  in  regard  to  his  choosing  a  wife  ;  but 
none  met  his  approval. 

When  I  found  myself  for  the  first  time  in  Munich  (1881),  and  saw 
the  solemn  palace  in  which  the  king  resides,  I  wondered  where  was  the 
Prince  Charming.  I  soon  heard  that  the  king  was  in  the  mountains, 
but  was  expected  shortly  to  return  to  Munich  for  a  few  weeks  of  the 
carnival  season. 

A  day  or  two  later,  we  were  driving  in  the  Hofgarten,  when  we 
encountered  a  long  procession  of  carriages,  with  servants  in  blue  liv- 
ery, and  outriders  who  looked  as  if  they  had  come  a  tedious  journey. 


122  THE  KING   OF  BAVARIA. 

Indeed,  they  had  been  travelling  day  and  night :  for  these  carriages 
contained  the  king's  suite,  his  private  effects,  and  his  body-servants  ; 
and  they  had  all  come  from  one  of  the  gloomy  castles  in  the  mountains 
to  which  the  king  goes  now  and  then,  living  almost  alone,  amusing 
himself  chiefly  with  books  and  music.  A  little  later,  and  there  passed 
an  unostentatious  open  carriage,  in  which  sat  the  king  himself. 

I  am  sorry  to  say  that  the  first  flush  of  youthful  beauty  has  de- 
parted. He  was  a  tolerably  good-looking  man,  with  large,  melancholy 
eyes,  a  heavy  mustache,  and  a  certain  military  air  increased  by  his  very 
gay  uniform  and  broad  shoulders.  As  he  passed,  people  looked  after 
him  curiously  enough  ;  for  he  is  rarely  seen,  even  in  the  streets  of  his 
own  capital.  The  glances  which  followed  him  were  not  particularly 
pleasant,  —  nothing  like  the  look  with  which  the  most  stolid  Briton 
regards  his  sovereign  or  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

It  was  certainly  a  disappointing  end  to  my  little  romance,  to  have 
to  give  up  the  idea  of  Prince  Charming ;  to  resign  my  fanciful  notions 
of  a  beautiful  young  king,  filling  his  court  with  grace,  music,  and  learn- 
ing ;  above  all,  not  only  to  see  him  transformed  into  a  heavy,  rather 
sullen-looking  man,  but  to  know  that  his  subjects  only  regarded  him 
with  half-horrified  curiosity. 

Ludwig  II.  was  born  in  August,  1845,  at  the  old  Palace  of  Nym- 
penburg.  It  is  a  dreary  building  just  outside  Munich, — along  gray 
pile,  with  very  little  to  suggest  its  being  a  royal  residence.  Indeed,  I 
know  few  places  drearier  in  winter  than  Nympenburg  Palace  ;  and  here, 
perhaps,  the  delicate,  fanciful  boy,  growing  up  in  an  atmosphere  of 
home-life  none  too  genial,  may  have  strengthened  his  morbid  tendencies. 

At  all  events,  the  story  of  his  early  life  is  a  very  dull  one.  He  had 
his  cousins  for  companions.  He  soon  showed  musical  ability ;  and, 
like  all  Bavarian  princes,  he  had  a  semi-military  education.  His  mother 
was  a  Prussian  princess,  and  in  her  twentieth  year  when  he  was  born. 
Her  married  life  was  clouded  by  the  peculiarities  of  her  husband,  who 
died  in  1864,  leaving  his  son,  a  boy-king  of  nineteen,  full  of  promise, 
but  disturbed  then  by  dawning  eccentricities. 

Since  his  accession  to  the  throne,  Ludwig  II.  has  spent  much  of  his 
time  at  his  country-places,  owing  to  an  aversion  to  Munich  ;  and  every 
year  his  peculiarities  grow  more  and  more  marked.  Indeed,  after  a 
winter  in  Bavaria,  and  meeting  many  people  on  intimate  terms  with  the 
court,  the  shrug  and  sigh  over  "  Dcr  Konig  !  "  is  easily  understood. 

I  suppose  no  prince  in  Europe  is  so  little  known  by  his  people.  He 
rarely  allows  himself  to  be  seen  in  public.     He  absents  himself  from 


THE  KING    OF  BAVARIA. 


123 


every  possible  state  occasion.  If  it  is  known  that  he  is  going  to  any 
particular  place,  and  the  people  try  to  see  him,  he  contrives  to  go  at 
an  unusual  hour.  In  short,  his  object  seems  to  be  to  divide  himself  as 
completely  as  possible  from  the  hearts  of  his  subjects. 

His  mode  of  life  is  most  peculiar.     Whether  in  Munich,  or  in  the 
country,  he  sits   up  far  into  the 
night,    with    the    rooms    bril- 
liantly lighted,  and,  as  far 
as    possible,    an    effect 
of     daytime    given.  , 

During  these 
hours,    when 
all      the 
world 


Royal  Palace,  Bavaria. 


is  supposed  to  be  sleeping,  he  occupies  himself  in  various  ways  pre- 
cisely as  if  it  were  daylight.  Towards  daybreak,  and  often  after,  he 
retires  to  bed,  sleeping  most  of  the  day,  or,  at  least,  reclining  in  bed. 

Attached  to  his  bed  is  a  curious  reading-desk,  so  contrived,  that,  by 
pressing  a  spring,  the  volume  is  let  up  or  down,  the  leaves  turned,  the 
book  closed,  etc. 

His  meals  are  served  to  him  alone  :  but  he  frequently  has  covers 


124  THE  KING    OF  BAVARIA. 

laid  for  seven  people, — guests  who  exist  only  in  his  own  fancy;  but 
the  servants  are  obliged  to  serve  each  plate  with  a  portion  of  every 
course,  while  the  king  presides  solemnly  over  the  very  ghostly  banquet. 
When  he  is  in  one  of  his  castles,  his  meals  are  all  served  on  a  table, 
which  is,  by  a  special  contrivance,  sent  up  through  a  trap-door,  so  that 
no  one  appears  during  the  meal. 

He  is  very  fond  of  surrounding  himself  with  the  costumes  and  fur- 
niture of  different  periods,  and,  in  his  country-houses,  insists  upon 
having  different  centuries  represented.  Sometimes  all  the  servants 
and  gentlemen  of  his  suite  are  obliged  to  dress  in  the  style  of  the  six- 
teenth or  eighteenth  centuries  ;  again,  in  that  of  the  ninth  or  tenth. 
The  king  is  perfectly  grave  and  self-possessed  while  these  theatrical 
figures  move  about  him. 

Seclusion  is  so  much  his  object,  that  he  now  refuses  to  see  his 
ministers  of  state,  unless  it  is  absolutely  unavoidable.  On  any  ordi- 
nary occasion,  they  are  obliged  to  converse  with  him  behind  a  wire- 
netting,  through  which  any  documents  are  handed  to  his  solemn 
Majesty.  He  insists  upon  the  most  rigid  etiquette  being  observed  in 
his  presence ;  and  even  his  own  cousins  are  not  permitted  to  seat  them- 
selves in  his  presence,  unless  as  a  very  special  favor.  Very  rarely, 
indeed,  are  they  allowed  to  visit  him  ;  and  he  is  scarcely  on  speaking- 
terms  with  his  mother,  although  her  residence  almost  adjoins  his. 

Wagner's  music  is  his  delight :  but  he  has  often  a  special  perform- 
ance of  the  opera  for  himself  alone ;  although  it  is  a  desperate  work 
for  the  singers  to  perform  to  the  rows  of  dark,  empty  stalls,  in  spite  of 
their  one  visitor  being  the  king  himself  ! 

Sometimes  he  has  music  at  his  winter  palace  ;  but  then,  it  is  a  most 
curious  entertainment.  In  the  top  of  the  building  he  has  caused  to  be 
placed  a  huge  tank  of  water,  surrounded  by  an  artificial  shore,  with 
tropical  plants,  rocks,  etc.,  —  everything  to  suggest  its  being  a  genuine 
lake.  On  this  he  has  a  boat  in  which  he  rows  himself  about,  fancying 
he  is  in  the  midst  of  summer  verdure,  and  on  natural  waters.  A  gauze 
network  separates  the  lake  from  a  sort  of  corridor,  to  which  he  invites 
the  principal  opera-singers.  There  they  stand,  singing  for  his  Majesty, 
while  he  rows  around  the  lake,  now  and  then  pausing  to  give  some 
direction  about  the  music. 

One  of  the  principal  singers  in  Munich  is  a  young  lady,  very  full  of 
fun  and  the  spirit  of  adventure.  One  day  it  occurred  to  her  to  create 
a  diversion,  and  shake  the  king's  equilibrium,  by  falling  into  the  water. 
Accordingly,  with  a  well-acted  little  scream  of  horror,  in  she  splashed. 


THE   KING    OF  BAVARIA.  1 25 

The  king  looked  for  an  instant  :  then,  pulling  his  boat  up  to  the  shore, 
he  rang  a  bell.  A  servant  instantly  appeared,  whereupon  his  Majesty, 
saying,  "You  may  take  her  out,"  rowed  on  calmly,  without  offering  an- 
other remark  ;  and  Mademoiselle  A was  conducted,  shivering  and 

wet,  to  her  carriage. 

Some  of  his  friendships  have  been  most  enthusiastic,  but  have  come 
to  the  most  abrupt  terminations.  One  friend,  for  whom  he  professed 
the  greatest  admiration,  was  thrown  aside  because,  while  reading  aloud 
to  the  king  one  day,  and  feeling  tired,  he  ventured  to  lounge  over  the 
back  of  a  chair.  A  young  and  pretty  German  princess,  about  whom 
the  court  entertained  high  hopes  at  one  time,  lost  favor  because  she 
refused  to  admire  "  Rienzi,"  one  of  Wagner's  operas  ;  and  he  quarrelled 
with  one  of  his  most  charming  cousins  over  a  small,  and  said  to  be  ugly, 
miniature  he  happened  to  admire. 

His  friendship  for  Wagner  has  been  most  solid  and  lasting  ;  but  the 
people  of  Munich  are  very  hostile  to  the  composer,  however  much  they 
may  like  his  music.  They  believe  he  encourages  the  king  in  eccen- 
tricity ;  and  several  times,  during  visits  to  Munich,  Wagner  has  been 
mobbed. 

"  Surely,"  I  hear  any  well-balanced  young  reader  say,  "  surely  this 
king  is  a  madman  !  "  Well,  not  long  ago  his  own  people  began  to  say 
the  same  thing ;  and  it  reached  the  king's  ears. 

"  Mad  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Do  they  think,  because  they  never  see 
me,  I  am  mad?"  Accordingly,  he  ordered  his  open  carriage,  with  out- 
riders and  all  possible  pomp,  and  drove  from  one  end  of  Munich  to 
another,  in  and  out  of  every  street,  however  obscure. 

"Now,"  he  remarked  to  a  friend,  "ask  them  if  I  look  mad.  But," 
he  added,  "  if  I  am,  it's  nobody  s  business!  " 


II. 

THE    ROYAL    FAMILY. 

Looking  out  of  my  window,  I  can  see  a  large  yellow  stone  building, 
scarcely  to  be  called  a  palace,  yet  certainly  more  imposing  than  an 
ordinary  town-mansion.  It  is  four  stories  high,  and  has  heavy  win- 
dows on  each  side  of  a  stone-paved  carriage-entrance.  To  the  right, 
looking  in  this  doorway,  one  can  see  a  flight  of  steps  leading  into  the 
house  ;  to  the  left,  glass  doors  swing  open  on  a  similar  staircase  ;  be- 


126  THE  ROYAL  FAMILY  OF  BAVARIA. 

yond  is  a  wide,  sunny  court,  in  which  servants  are  constantly  to  be  seen 
running  hither  and  thither. 

Sometimes  a  footman,  in  pale  blue  livery,  stands  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase.  Every  day  a  very  striking  figure  appears  in  the  doorway. 
This  is  an  official,  wearing  a  cocked  hat,  and  a  long  blue  cloth  coat 
elaborately  trimmed  with  fur  and  silver,  who  carries  a  huge  silver  rod 
which  glitters  in  the  sun.  There  are  two  soldiers  stationed  at  each 
side  of.  the  doorway  in  sentry-boxes,  who  look  at  the  magnificently 
dressed  official  from  time  to  time,  as  if  waiting  to  detect  in  his  expres- 
sion some  command. 

A  little  American  girl,  who  walked  past  the  house  one  day,  was 
most  curious  to  know  who  the  man  in  the  furs  and  silver  was,  —  why  he 
stood  so  long  in  the  door.  So  she  waited  to  see  what  would  happen. 
It  was  a  fine  day  in  early  spring :  the  sun  was  shining,  and  the  pigeons 
gathering  in  swarms  on  the  eaves  of  the  old  yellow  stone  house. 

Presently  an  open  carriage  turned  the  corner.  In  it  sat  a  plump, 
sweet-faced  lady  of  about  thirty,  and  two  little  girls,  —  pretty  children, 
—  who  had  their  dolls  beside  them.  A  tall,  fine-looking  gentleman 
rode  by  them  on  a  black  horse.  Instantly  the  sentinels  presented  arms. 
The  man  in  the  cocked  hat  stood  very  upright,  bowing  as  the  carriage 
and  the  rider  passed  in  ;  while  everybody  standing  about  bowed,  the 
lady  and  gentleman  and  the  little  girls  returning  the  salutations,  right 
and  left. 

When  the  party  had  disappeared  behind  the  glass  doors,  and  the 
servants  had  driven  the  horses  into  the  court -yard,  the  man  at  the  door 
vanished  also.  His  duty  for  the  hour  was  over  ;  for  he  had  been  wait- 
ing, according  to  Bavarian  etiquette,  for  the  return  of  his  master  and 
mistress,  who  are  Prince  Ludwig  and  his  lovely  wife,  Princess  Maria 
Therese. 

Prince  Ludwig  is  the  king's  cousin,  and,  in  the  event  of  the  king 
dying  childless,  will  succeed  to  the  throne. 

This  prince  is  one  of  the  most  popular  members  of  the  Bavarian 
royal  family.  While  the  king  is  never  seen,  and  never  interests  him- 
self in  his  public,  Prince  Ludwig  is  constantly  among  the  people.  One 
meets  him  nearly  every  fine  Sunday,  walking  in  one  of  the  principal 
streets  with  his  wife  on  his  arm,  and  sometimes  one  or  two  of  their 
children  with  them.  They  go  about  in  this  way  with  perfect  simpli- 
city, the  only  attention  exacted  from  passers-by  being  a  civil  bow,  which 
they  always  return  ;  although  frequently  gentlemen  who  are  passing 
move  back,  bowing  until  the  royal  couple  have  gone  by. 


THE  ROYAL   FAMILY  OF  BAVARIA. 


127 


The  prince  is  a  plain,  clever-looking  man,  with  a  light  beard,  near- 
sighted eyes,  and  a  most  kindly  smile.  His  wife  is  handsome,  and  very 
genial-looking  ;  and  their  children  have  the  most  brilliant  complexions, 
and  beautiful  eyes  and  hair. 


line  Royal  Family  of  Bavaria. 


These  little  royalties  are  most  carefully  educated,  for  Princess  Maria 
Therese  is  known  to  be  one  of  the  most  sensible  mothers  in  Europe. 
They  study  hard,  learning  to  cook,  to  sew,  and  even  to  do  housework ; 
and,  of  course,  their  accomplishments  are  varied.  In  winter  they  re- 
side in  the  town-house  which    I    have    described,  going   freely  about 


128  THE  ROYAL   FAMILY  OF  BAVARIA. 

Munich  ;  if  walking,  attended  by  a  governess  and  a  man-servant ;  if 
driving,  with  their  mother,  and  always  ready  to  look  up  politely,  and 
nod  to  the  people  who  salute  them  in  the  public  streets. 

In  summer  they  live  chiefly  in  the  Tyrol,  —  sometimes  at  a  beautiful 
villa  on  Lake  Constance.  There  they  continue  their  studies,  but  their 
home-life  is  even  freer  than  in  Munich.  The  princess  superintends 
their  education  very  strictly,  spending  hours  in  their  schoolroom  or 
nursery,  and,  in  spite  of  much  necessary  formality,  engaging  their 
instructors  and  nurses,  and  directing  such  herself.  A  moderate  sum 
is  allowed  them  for  pocket-money,  but  this  is  only  to  be  spent  judi- 
ciously ;  and  I  am  told  that  the  little  princesses  enjoy  the  free  expen- 
diture of  twenty-five  cents  quite  as  much  as,  if  not  more  than,  would 
any  small  person,  under  ten,  on  Beacon  Street  or  Madison  Avenue. 

Up  to  a  certain  age,  the  Bavarian  princesses  are  entirely  subject 
to  their  governesses,  who  are  not  allowed  to  treat  them  as  if  their 
rank  were  royal.  In  going  or  coming,  leaving  the  house,  a  church,  shop, 
etc.,  the  governess  takes  the  lead,  the  prince  or  princess  following  her 
as  any  ordinary  child  would  an  older  person  ;  and  they  are  obliged  to 
treat  their  little  guests  with  similar  deference. 

Not  long  ago  one  of  the  princesses  invited  a  young  friend  of  mine 
to  drive.  The  carriage  was  waiting ;  and,  on  the  governess  leading  the 
way  to  it,  the  princess  jumped  in  first,  and  took  the  front  seat.  The 
governess  stood  still,  and  calmly  ordered  her  royal  pupil  to  get  out 
again.  This  was  done  with  rather  a  bad  grace,  and  her  little  highness 
murmured  something  to  the  effect  that  she  did  not  see  why  Mademoi- 
selle Von  B should  go  in  ahead  of  her.     The  governess  thereupon 

insisted  upon  her  pupil's  waiting  until  every  one  was  seated,  and  then 
allowed  her  to  get  in  unaided,  and  take  the  back  seat,  a  discipline 
which  her  mother  strongly  commended  on  their  return  to  the  palace. 

Sometimes,  however,  etiquette  interferes  with  their  amusements. 
Once,  at  Lake  Constance,  when  one  of  the  princesses  wished  to  give 
a  picnic-party,  it  was  found  that  not  above  half  a  dozen  children  of 
sufficient  rank  for  so  impromptu  an  affair  could.be  found.  And,  on 
another  equally  sudden  occasion,  the  little  guests  could  not  assemble 
because  etiquette  demanded  a  special  kind  of  dress  which  there  was  no 
time  to  procure. 

A  very  charming  member  of  the  Bavarian  royal  family  is  the  Prin- 
cess Gisela.  She  was  the  very  young  bride  whose  arrival  in  Munich 
created  such  a  sensation  a  few  years  ago.  She  is  the  daughter  of  the 
Emperor  of  Austria,  and  was  married  to  Prince   Leopold  of  Bavaria 


THE  ROYAL   FAMILY  OF  BAVARIA.  129 

when  she  was  little  more  than  fifteen.  Being  of  a  very  gay,  vivacious 
disposition,  loving  school-girlish  "fun"  as  well  as  social  amusements, 
you  can  imagine  that  her  appearance  in  the  dreariest  of  foreign  courts 
caused  no  little  flutter ;  and  Princess  Gisela  has  never  lost  her  bril- 
liancy and  gay  good-humor.  If  court-life  were  what  she  would  make 
it,  Munich  would  be  a  very  changed  place.  She  is  not  only  known  for 
her  liveliness  of  manner,' but  for  an  extraordinary  sweet  temper,  and 
for  being  the  wisest  of  little  mothers,  and  one  of  the  best  of  wives. 
It  is  pretty  to  see  her  with  her  tiny  children,  herself  little  more  than 
a  girl,  and  yet  watching  them  with  all  the  fond  solicitude  of  middle 
age.  She  has  no  claims  to  positive  beauty ;  but  her  face  is  radiant 
when  she  speaks,  and  at  all  times  has  a  charm  of  its  own,  — a  piquant 
sort  of  loveliness,  which  is  often  more  attractive  than  regularity  of 
feature. 

This  princess  is  a  particular  favorite  with  the  gentle-looking  lady 
whom  we  see  very  often,  and  who  is  known  as  the  "  Queen  Mother." 
King  Ludwig  has  never  married,  so  that  his  father's  widow  receives 
every  consideration  as  the  Queen  of  Bavaria.  She  leads  a  quiet, 
peaceful  life.  When  she  is  in  Munich,  she  lives  in  the  big  yellow 
palace  in  the  centre  of  the  town,  part  of  which  is  constantly  shown 
the  public.  She  receives  visitors,  and  makes  calls  herself,  from  time 
to  time. 

The  other  day  her  state-carriage  created  quite  a  sensation  in  a 
small  street  through  which  we  were  passing.  She  was  going  to  make 
a  call  upon  some  one  who  lived  there ;  and  the  big  carriage,  with  foot- 
men swinging  behind,  and  two  men  on  the  heavily  draped  box,  rattled 
up  to  the  door  ;  while  several  by-standers  whispered  among  themselves, 
"The  Heaven  be  praised,  — the  queen  !  " 

The  footmen  jumped  down,  and  unfolded  the  steps  of  the  carriage, 
whereupon  a  very  quiet-looking  little  lady,  in  a  long  black  velvet  pelisse, 
and  close-fitting  black  velvet  bonnet,  descended,  and,  bowing  to  the 
people  on  either  side,  passed  into  the  house,  followed  by  her  lady-in- 
waiting  and  two  footmen. 

The  duty  of  the  latter  was  to  wait  outside  the  inner  door  until  the 
queen  re-appeared,  when  they  would  follow  her  down-stairs  again. 

When  she  walks  about,  it  is  with  very  little  ceremony.  Her  lady- 
in-waiting  accompanies  her,  and  she  is  followed  by  two  footmen.  As 
she  passes  through  the  streets,  it  is  customary  for  people  to  stand 
aside,  — -  gentlemen  lifting  their  hats,  and  ladies  bowing,  as  she  goes  by. 

Only  once  did  I   see  the    queen  appear  with    any  splendor.     The 


130  The  royal  family. 

day  was  very  fine,  brilliantly  so,  indeed  ;  and  we  went  down  to  one  of 
the  public  squares  to  hear  the  military  band  play.  Every  day  at  one 
o'clock  a  detachment  of  soldiers  marches  through  certain  streets  of 
the  town,  halting  before  the  old  palace,  where  a  double  line  of  soldiers 
are  drawn  up,  who  present  arms,  and  go  through  a  very  effective  bit 
of  drill,  the  commanding-officers-  riding  up  and  down  in  their  shining 
uniforms,  —  blue  and  white,  with  silver  lace,  and  splendid  helmets  and 
plumes.  This  over,  the  band  take  their  places  on  the  portico  of  a  large 
building,  where  they  play  for  an  hour,  while  half  of  Munich  walks 
about  listening. 

The  drill  was  over :  the  band  was  crashing  away  at  the  march  from 
"Tannhauser,"  when  there  came  riding  down  the  street  a  soldier  on  a 
fine  horse,  whom  we  knew  preceded  the  queen  on  a  state  occasion  ; 
and  then  followed  her  glass  chariot,  —  a  most  curious  affair,  nearly  all 
of  glass,  —  within  which  she  was  plainly  to  be  seen,  bowing  right  and 
left,  returning  the  salutations  of  the  crowd.  The  chariot  was  drawn 
by  four  horses,  on  two  of  which  were  postilions,  who  loudly  cracked 
their  whips,  while  one  man  blew  a  horn. 

As  we  walked  away,  rather  dazzled  by  this  shining  spectacle,  I  re- 
membered how  very  like  a  prince  in  a  fairy  tale  the  King  of  Bavaria 
used  to  seem  in  his  boyish  days, — and  had  not  this  little  lady  driven 
by  with  all  the  air  of  a  magical  godmother ! 


END  OF  PRINCE   LOUIS  NAPOLEON. 


By   ARCHIBALD    FORBES. 

I  WAS  first  introduced  to  Prince  Louis  —  or,  as  we  in  England  still 
continued  to  call  him,  the  Prince  Imperial  —  at  the  annual   dinner 
of  the  Newspaper  Press  Fund  in  London  in  the  year  1877. 

He  had  made  an  excellent  speech,  and  had  met  with  a  most  enthu- 
siastic reception.  He  was  a  young  man  of  very  bright  parts,  and,  in 
spite  of  obvious  disadvantages,  had  distinguished  himself  not  a  little 
in  his  studies  at  our  Royal  Military  Academy  at  Woolwich,  which  he 
attended  as  an  artillery  cadet.  His  two  closest  comrades  there  were 
Slade  and  Bigge,  both  of  whom  were  afterward  in  service  with  him  in 
Zululand. 

Among  those  who  looked  below  the  surface,  there  was  never  any 
doubt,  and  subsequent  revelations  have  established  the  fact,  that  Prince 
Louis  volunteered  to  see  fighting  with  the  British  troops  in  Zululand, 
in  order  that,  by  gaining  reputation  for  bravery  in  field-service  there,  he 
might  add  personal  prestige  to  his  pretensions  to  the  throne  of  France. 
It  was,  then,  something  worse  than  a  mistake  on  the  part  of  the  Brit- 
ish authorities,  or,  rather,  on  the  part  of  the  great  people  of  the  British 
Court,  actively  to  aid  an  adventure,  the  covert  purpose  of  which  was 
to  further  the  subversion  of  the  settled  order  of  things,  in  a  country 
to  which  Britain  stood  in  the  attitude  of  a  friendly  ally. 

Never  of  a  strong  constitution,  Prince  Louis  was  prostrated  by 
fever  within  a  few  days  of  his  landing  in  South  Africa.  He  insisted 
on  going  under  canvas,  with  a  battery  of  artillery,  the  officers  of  which 
were  old  friends  of  his,  and  which  was  encamped  at  Cato's  Manor,  just 
outside  Port  Durban.  A  few  days  of  this  work  knocked  him  over  ; 
and  he  had  to  go  and  be  nursed  in  the  house  of  a  hospitable  resident 
of  Durban,  whose  wife  attended  on  the  sick  prince  as  if  he  had  been 
her  own  son. 

131 


132  END   OF  PRINCE  LOUIS  NAPOLEON. 

When  he  recovered,  Lord  Chelmsford,  who  commanded  in  South 
Africa,  attached  him  to  his  personal  staff  in  the  capacity  of  honorary 
aide-de-camp ;  and  he  accompanied  his  lordship  to  the  Zululand  fron- 
tier, prior  to  the  recommencement  of  active  operations  in  May,  1879. 

I  met  the  prince  very  often  during  the  weary  time  when  the  two 
columns  of  the  invading  force  were  lingering  at  Landman's  Drift  and 
Kambula,  waiting  for  the  full  equipment  that  was  to  enable  them  to 
commence  their  march  of  invasion.  He  had  become  informally  attached 
to  the  department  of  the  quartermaster-general,  Col.  Harrison  ;  and  he 
was  eager  for  employment  on  every  reconnaissance  made  into  the  hostile 
territory.  He  was  singularly  modest.  When,  at  a  camp-dinner,  the 
place  of  honor  would  be  tendered  him,  he  invariably  declined  with 
firmness,  but  courtesy,  protesting  that  he  was  "too  junior." 

For  obvious  reasons,  I  had  never  made  any  reference  in  conversa- 
tion with  him  to  the  Franco-German  war,  that  had  wrecked  his  dy- 
nasty ;  but  one  day  he  voluntarily  introduced  the  topic,  and  told  me  a 
number  of  personal  anecdotes  concerning  that  stirring  period.  When 
his  father,  himself,  and  the  imperial  suite  were  hurrying  away  from 
Metz,  to  escape  the  environment  that  subsequently  befell  Bazaine's 
army,  they  got  jammed  in  a  block  of  troops  and  vehicles  on  the  chaus- 
s/e  leading  to  Gravelotte.  There  came  a  panic,  and  the  imperial  party 
seemed  hopelessly  blocked  in.  But  Prince  Louis,  in  his  rides  during 
his  stay  in  Metz,  had  made  himself  acquainted  with  all  the  by-tracks. 
One  of  these,  a  vineyard  path,  opened  close  to  where  the  party  was 
blocked.  Riding  into  it,  with  the  exclamation,  "  Follow  me,  papa ! " 
the  boy  of  fourteen  guided  the  whole  cavalcade  out  of  the  press,  and 
led  it  by  a  wide  but  safe  circuit  through  the  vineyards  to  the  house  in 
Gravelotte,  where  the  halt  for  the  night  was  arranged. 

In  one  of  the  early  reconnaissances  into  Zululand,  he  had  exposed 
himself  with  great  recklessness,  galloping  headlong  and  alone  into  a 
broken  rocky  country  after  some  Zulus  who  had  shown  themselves ; 
and,  on  hearing  of  this,  Lord  Chelmsford  gave  orders  that  he  should 
go  on  no  expedition  without  his  sanction. 

In  the  same  reconnaissance,  he  was  so  bent  on  roughing  it,  that  he 
had  brought  no  blanket.  The  nights  were  very  cold  ;  and  when,  in 
bivouac,  the  sager  troops  lay  snug  under  their  blankets,  he  tramped 
about  to  keep  himself  warm,  singing  meanwhile  the  French  camp-song 
of  "Malbrook."  At  length,  a  rough  trooper  swore  at  him  for  "kick- 
ing up  that  infernal  row,"  and  offered  him  half  his  blanket  if  he  would 
only  lie  down,  and  go  to  sleep. 


END    OF  PRINCE  LOUIS  NAPOLEON.  1 33 

"  The  youngster  is  as  keen  as  mustard,"  was  the  approving  comment 
of  the  old  soldiers 

At  length  the  march  of  invasion  began.  The  column  which  Lord 
Chelmsford  and  the  prince  accompanied,  lay  encamped,  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  1st  of  June,  at  a  spot  called  Koppie  Allein,  on  the  bank  of 
the  Blood  River,  the  boundary  between  the  Transvaal  and  Zululand. 
It  was  to  march  that  day  forward  some  seven  miles  to  another  en- 
camping-ground,  called  Itelezi  Hill.  Already  the  ground,  some  distance 
in  advance,  had  been  carefully  scouted  over,  and  found  to  be  clear  of 
Zulus.  A  site  for  the  halt  next  succeeding  that  at  Itelezi  Hill  had 
been  chosen  about  ten  miles  forward  from  the  latter  camp,  on  level 
ground  close  to  the  Ityotyosi  River. 

The  prince  had  for  three  days  been  hard  at  desk-work,  which  he 
abhorred  ;  and  he  asked  Col.  Harrison  to  let  him  go  forward  to  the 
Ityotyosi  River,  and  plan  the  disposition  of  the  camp  to  be  formed 
there.  There  seemed  no  risk,  and  Harrison  consented  without  con- 
sulting Lord  Chelmsford.  Lieut.  Carey  asked  and  got  permission  to 
accompany  the  prince,  to  perfect  a  sketch,  which  he  had  already  made, 
of  the  tracks  leading  to  the  Ityotyosi  camping-ground. 

I  was  living  with  the  general  commanding  the  cavalry ;  and  I  re- 
member, as  if  it  were  but  yesterday,  Carey  coming  to  Capt.  Stewart, 
the  cavalry  brigade  major,  for  an  escort.  He  asked  and  got  authoriza- 
tion for  six  white  irregulars,  and  an  equal  number  of  Basutos, — black 
troopers  who  were  admirable  scouts,  and  who  can  smell  a  Zulu  a  mile 
away.  Such  an  escort  was  adequate  for  any  such  service,  and  would 
have  been  considered  ample  for  the  commander-in-chief  himself.  Carey 
took  the  orders,  and  said  that  he  would  pick  up  the  detachments  as  he 
passed  through  the  respective  camps.     Then  he  rode  away. 

He  was  in  a  hurry ;  and  so  he  took  with  him,  as  he  rode  on  to 
catch  up  with  the  prince,  only  the  six  white  irregular  troopers.  The 
Basutos  required  a  little  time  to  get  ready  ;  so  he  did  not  wait  for  them, 
but  left  instructions  that  they  should  ride  forward,  and  overtake  him, 
indicating  the  route  he  was  to  take.  By  an  unfortunate  mistake,  his 
instructions  were  misunderstood  ;  and  the  black  fellows,  an  hour  after 
Carey  had  gone,  paraded  in  front  of  the  cavalry  headquarters. 

They  were  ordered  off  at  once  to  overtake  Carey  ;  but  they  did 
not  succeed  in  striking  his  track,  and,  giving  up  the  hunt,  returned 
into  camp.  Had  the  Basuto  escort  been  with  the  prince,  in  all  human 
probability  he  would  have  been  alive  to-day. 

That  same  night,  as  we  were  at  dinner  about  seven,  in  Gen.   Mar- 


134  END   OF  PRINCE  LOUIS  NAPOLEON. 

shall's  tent,  a  scared  face  looked  in  through  the  tent-door.  It  was 
Harrison,  who,  with  a  broken,  agitated  voice,  exclaimed,  "  My  God  !  the 
Prince  Imperial  is  killed  ! "  The  ill  news  was  too  true.  Carey  and 
four  of  the  irregulars  had  brought  back  the  wretched  tidings.  The 
prince,  two  troopers,  and  a  black  interpreter,  who  had  been  with  the 
party,  had  been  left  on  the  field. 

Next  morning  Gen.  Marshall  took  out  the  cavalry  brigade  to  re- 
connoitre the  ground,  and  bring  in  the  bodies  ;  for,  from  the  first,  there 
was  no  hope  that  any  of  the  abandoned  men  were  alive.  Carey  ac- 
companied the  party,  as  did  the  four  troopers  that  had  been  of  the 
escort.  Carey  was  not  under  arrest,  and  seemed  nowise  oppressed  by 
the  gravity  of  his  position. 

We  found  the  poor  lad's  body  in  a  grassy  hollow,  about  two  hun- 
dred yards  distant  from  the  kraal  at  which,  on  remounting  after  a 
short  rest,  the  party  had  been  surprised  by  the  Zulus.  He  was  stripped 
stark  naked,  one  eye  gouged  out,  his  body  literally  covered  with  as- 
segai stabs,  and  his  left  arm  marked  by  countless  cuts,  as  if  he  had 
held  it  raised  in  self-defence.  The  two  troopers  lay  near,  slain  also  by 
assegai  wounds.  On  no  corpse,  either  of  the  three  human  beings  or 
of  the  two  slain  horses,  was  there  any  mark  of  bullet-wound.  The 
interpreter's  body  was  found  a  mile  away.  He  had  died  game,  after 
clear  evidence  of  a  desperate  hand-to-hand  combat. 

A  court  of  inquiry  inculpated  Carey,  who  was  almost  immediately 
brought  to  trial  on  a  charge  of  "misbehavior  in  presence  of  the  enemy." 
It  is  curious,  that  just  as  in  the  German  army,  there  is  no  bugle-sound 
that  means  "retreat,"  so  in  the  English  military  code,  there  is  no  spe- 
cific mention  of  the  crime  of  "cowardice." 

I  was  present  throughout  the  proceedings  of  the  court-martial  on 
Lieut.  Carey,  heard  all  the  evidence  and  his  defence,  and  will  now 
attempt  to  give  an  impartial  synopsis  of  the  circumstances  attending 
the  prince's  untimely  death. 

First,  the  ground  must  be  cleared  of  one  complication.  Carey  could 
not  fairly  be  considered  in  command  of  the  party.  It  was  the  prince's 
expedition.  True,  Carey  was  the  only  commissioned  officer  of  the 
British  army  present,  and  obvious  duties  devolved  upon  him  in  that 
capacity ;  but  the  prince  was  understood  to  rank  as  honorary  captain, 
and  so  was  in  nominal  command,  having  Carey  merely  as  his  guide, 
philosopher,  and  friend. 

After  an  hour's  halt  in  the  kraal  by  the  Ityotyosi  River,  the  horses 
being  off-saddled,  and  pasturing  around,  and  the  hour  being  nearly  four, 


END    OF  PRINCE  LOUIS  NAPOLEON. 


Carey  suggested  to  the  prince  that  it  was  time  to  move  back  to  camp. 
The  black  interpreter  had  reported  having  seen  a  Zulu  prowling  about 
the  river  near  by.  The  horses  were  caught  and  saddled,  and  the  prince 
gave  the  word  of  command  to  mount. 

Just  as  feet  were  in  stirrups,  all  the  survivors  agreed  in  testifying 
that  a  volley  of  musketry 
came  into  the  party  from 
all  round  the  edge  of  the 
maize-field  that  formed  a 
semicircle  round  the  east- 
ern side  of  the  kraal. 

Carey  said,  that,  when 
mounting,  he  was   on  one 


Death  of  Prince  Napoleon. 

side  of  a  hut,  the  prince  on  the  other ;  that  he  saw  the  latter  spring  to 
mount,  and  thought  himself  entitled  to  assume  he  was  safe  in  the 
saddle,  like  himself.  All  the  troopers  concurred  in  asserting  that 
Carey  was  the  foremost  fugitive,  that  he  led  the  way  at  a  gallop,  with- 
out looking  back  over  the  two  hundred  yards  of  sward,  across  the 
ravine,  or  donga,  and  far  up  the  rugged  slope  beyond. 

Carey  certainly  could  give  no  account  of  any  thing  that  happened 


136  END   OF  PRINCE  LOUIS  NAPOLEON. 

behind  him  after  he  fled  away,  till  one  of  the  troopers  overtook  him 
on  the  high  ground  beyond  the  donga.  Carey  still  wears  the  Queen's 
uniform,  the  technical  grounds  of  his  exculpation  being  that  he  was  a 
scout,  and,  therefore,  it  was  his  duty  to  run,  and  not  fight. 

The  prince  never  got  mounted  at  all.  His  horse  was  restive,  and 
he  would  not  stand.  He  ran  by  the  side  of  the  beast,  one  hand  hold- 
ing the  reins,  and  clutching  the  pommel,  the  other  in  the  cantle  of  the 
saddle.  One  of  the  troopers,  a  Jersey  man,  passed  him  in  this  plight, 
shouting,  as  he  passed,  — 

"  Dfyechcz-vous,  monsieur" 

Presently  he  was  seen,  by  a  trooper  who  looked  back,  to  let  go  his 
grip  of  the  saddle,  and  fall  backwards,  the  horse  escaping  at  a  head- 
long gallop.  The  trooper  thought  the  prince  was  shot,  but  this  was 
not  so.  The  broad  band  of  leather,  linking  the  holsters,  and  crossing, 
the  pommel  of  the  saddle,  was  what  his  right  hand  had  been  clutching 
as  he  strove  to  spring  into  the  saddle.  This  had  torn  under  the  strain  ; 
and  so  the  prince  had  lost  his  grip,  and  fallen  backward.  I  inspected 
the  rents  next  day,  for  the  horse  was  brought  into  camp ;  and  I  found 
that  the  band  which  had  given  way  was  made,  not  of  sound,  stout 
leather,  but  of  a  wretched  substance  that  seemed  brown  paper. 

And  so,  in  a  sense,  it  was  not  the  Zulus  that  killed  Prince  Louis, 
but  the  shoddy  rascality  of  a  firm  of  Woolwich  saddlers. 

After  the  poor  lad,  in  losing  his  horse,  had  lost  his  last  chance,  he 
ran,  before  the  Zulus  overtook  him,  nearly  two  hundred  yards,  till  he 
reached  the  little  grassy  ravine,  or  donga,  where  we  found  his  body. 
One  of  the  troopers  saw  him  disappear  into  the  hollow  of  the  donga 
with  the  Zulus  close  at  his  heels.  He  never  saw  him  emerge.  He 
never  did  emerge  till  we  carried  him  out  feet  foremost. 

Had  any  man  of  the  party  waited  for  him  in  comparative  safety  in 
that  donga,  and  taken  him  up  behind  him,  there  is  a  strong  probability 
that  he  would  have  been  saved.  I  have  seen  many  far  more  risky 
enterprises  crowned  with  success.  But,  when  the  prince  was  being 
asscgaicd,  the  man  who  might  have  covered  himself  with  credit  by  a 
deed  for  the  chance  of  which  scores  of  men  would  burn,  was  flying 
ventre  a  terre  with  panic  at  his  heart,  and  words  of  abjectness  on  his 
lips. 

It  remains  to  be  said,  that,  after  the  most  careful  inspection,  I 
could  find,  around  the  kraal,  and  all  over  the  ground,  no  wad  or  car- 
tridge, or  any  evidence  of  the  use  of  fire-arms  by  the  Zulus.  The  cir- 
cumstance that  no  man  or  horse  was  touched  by  a  bullet  confirms  my 


END    OF  PRINCE  LOUIS  NAPOLEON.  137 

deliberate  belief  that  the  attacking  handful  of  Zulus  were  armed  only 
with  assegais,  and  that  the  story  of  a  volley  was  an  invention  of  Carey 
and  the  surviving  troopers  to  palliate  the  disgrace  of  their  common 
poltroonery. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LEIGH  HUNT. 


By  JAMES  T.   FIELDS. 

IT  is  said  there  is  a  bird  in  the  interior  of  Africa  who  indicates  to 
honey-hunters  where  the  nests  of  wild  bees  are  to  be  found,  by 
calling  out  to  them  with  a  cheerful  cry.  I  always  think  of  Leigh  Hunt 
as  the  honey-indicator  of  literature,  calling  to  us  in  his  sweet,  per- 
suasive way,  to  come  and  help  ourselves  to  the  choicest  morsel  in 
English  prose  and  poetry,  the  honeyed  words  of  wit  and  wisdom,  — 
"infinite  riches  in  a  little  room." 

I  do  not  wonder  that  Shelley  called  Hunt  "one  of  those  happy 
souls  which  are.  the  salt  of  earth,"  for  his  works  reveal  only  the 
best  thoughts  in  the  best  words.  In  one  of  his  works,  Hunt  says  his 
object  in  writing  is  "to  make  the  utmost  of  this  green  and  golden 
world,  the  smallest  particle  of  whose  surface  we  have  not  yet  learned 
to  turn  to  account."  There  is  nothing  dark  or  desponding  about  him, 
and  he  is  always  insisting  that  there  is  an  "angel  in  the  house." 

It  seems  to  be  a  sacred  mission  with  him  to  preach  everywhere  in 
his  books  the  power  of  Love  The  words  Gladness  and  Hopefulness 
are  constantly  recurring  in  his  thought-illumined  pages.  As  I  look 
through  his  gracious  essays,  I  find  such  seasonable  precepts  as  are 
rarely  to  be  met  with  in  modern  books.  The  "  charities  that  soothe 
and  heal  and  bless  "  were  familiar  acts  to  him,  and  he  never  parleyed 
with  doubt  or  fear. 

His  affections  fertilized  and  blessed  the  hearts  of  all  his  readers. 
His  idolatries  were  only  tendered  to  what  is  pure  and  noble  in  art. 
You  admire  his  enthusiasm  because  it  is  wisely  bestowed.  For  in- 
stance, when  he  has  once  taught  his  reader  to  discriminate  what  is  true 
in  poetry,  there  never  can  be  any  further  mistake  in  judgment.  He  is 
almost  infallible  as  a  guide  to  the  student. 
>3« 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  LEIGH  HUNT.  139 

There  never  were  greater  felicities  in  diction  than  you  will  meet 
with  in  Leigh  Hunt's  refreshing  books.  I  remember  he  somewhere 
calls  a  piano  "a  piece  of  furniture  with  a  soul  in  it."  (Think  of  this 
when  your  sister  is  playing  one  of  Chopin's  enchanting  preludes  to 
you,  my  young  reader  !) 

He  once  called  the  ivory  keys  of  a  piano  "  a  dancing  and  singing 
multitude."  There  was  a  potent  charm  and  unexpected  playfulness  in 
every  thing  he  wrote.  Seeing  a  raindrop  on  a  pane  of  glass,  he  called 
the  minute  globule  "  a  visitor  from  the  solitudes  of  time." 

Speaking  one  day  of  the  journal  he  was  then  editing,  he  said,  "We 
hope  we  shall  be  thumbed  horribly,  and  carried  about  in  pockets  like 
a  love-letter,  or  other  certificate  of  merit."  His  gems  of  thought  were 
all  of  intrinsic  value. 

He  was  as  personal  an  essayist  as  Montaigne,  but  never  obtrusive 
nor  offensive.  He  liked  to  be  candid  with  his  readers,  and  always 
treated  them  with  open-heartedness  and  joyous  cordiality.  He  was 
constantly  advising  his  reader  to  be  cheerful,  and  trying  to  impress 
this  maxim,  "  that  the  great  art  is  to  cultivate  impression  of  the  pleas- 
ant sort,  just  as  a  man  will  raise  wholesome  plants  in  his  garden,  and 
not  poisonous  ones." 

He  begs  us  to  put  up  pictures  in  our  rooms,  and  flowers  on  the 
table,  saying  that  the  fashion  of  roses  never  changes  like  that  of  silks 
and  velvets,  and  silver  forks. 

From  his  very  boyhood  he  had  acquired  the  alchemy  of  loving- 
kindness.  In  all  his  writings,  there  is  not  one  passage  sullied  by 
temper,  immodesty,  or  fractiousness.  He  has  written  on  many  sub- 
jects, and  he  has  treated  all  of  them  from  the  pleasant  altitudes  of 
humanity. 

It  is  delightful  to  see  with  what  warmth  the  best  of  his  contem- 
poraries have  spoken  of  him.  Carlyle  says,  "He  was  a  man  of  genius 
in  the  strictest  sense  of  that  word."  Hawthorne,  who  met  him  at  the 
table  of  Barry  Cornwall,  describes  him  as  a  beautiful  old  man,  with 
one  of  the  finest  countenances  he  ever  saw.  It  is  painful  to  be  still 
told  that  Dickens  painted  the  character  of  Harold  Skimpole  after  the 
character  of  Leigh  Hunt.  We  have  the  fullest  authority  from  Dickens 
himself  to  deny  this  ungenerous  report. 

Shelley,  Keats,  Macaulay,  Hazlitt,  Charles  Lamb,  Talfourd,  Miss 
Mitford,  and  a  host  of  other  celebrated  writers,  have  borne  testimony 
to  the  sunshine  of  his  genius  and  the  purity  of  his  character.  His 
whole  life  was  up  to  a  very  high  standard.     He  did  nothing  low  or 


140  RECOLLECTIONS   OF  LEIGH  HUNT. 

mean,  —  a  beautiful  poet  and  an  essayist,  touching  nothing  he  did  not 
brighten  and  adorn. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  books  ever  written  is  Leigh  Hunt's 
biography  of  himself, — an  autobiography  almost  unequalled.  It  is  a 
book  that  ought  to  be  read  by  all  who  wish  to  get  authentic  informa- 
tion of  Hunt's  contemporaries.  It  abounds  in  pen-portraits  of  many 
writers  who  have  long  ago  passed  into  fame. 

Leigh  Hunt's  poetry  can  be  read  over  and  over  again.  "  The 
Story  of  Rimini "  is  full  of  the  subtle  spirit  which  characterized 
Chaucer  and  the  earlier  poets.  "  Abou  ben  Adhem  "  can  never  be 
forgotten.  "The  Feast  of  the  Poets"  has  never  been  equalled  in  its 
way. 

Leigh  Hunt's  prose-works  are  numerous.  Every  one  of  them  is 
worthy  to  be  studied  and  remembered.  "The  Indicator,"  "The  Seer," 
"The  Companion,"  "Imagination  and  Fancy,"  "Wit  and  Humor,"  "A 
Jar  of  Honey  from  Mount  Hybla,"  "A  Book  for  a  Corner,"  "  The  Re- 
ligion of  the  Heart,"  are  the  titles  of  some  of  his  most  noted  works. 
Every  one  should  read  "The  Correspondence  of  Leigh  Hunt,"  as 
edited  by  his  oldest  son.  His  Letters  must  always  rank  among  the 
most  brilliant  of  English  epistles.  In  these  days  when  so  many  young 
people  are  devouring  flimsy  and  weakening  novels,  what  a  happy 
change  it  would  be  if  some  of  the  best  of  Leigh  Hunt's  writings  could 
only  come  into  fashion  ! 

My  own  personal  recollections  of  Leigh  Hunt  are  vivid  and  unfad- 
ing. I  seem  now  to  hear  his  gentle,  caressing  voice,  and  his  exquis- 
itely modulated  sentences.  As  he  sat  in  the  twilight,  and  described 
Keats  and  Shelley  to  me,  his  face  was  flushed  with  fond  and  tearful 
memories.  As  he  went  on  talking  in  his  inimitable,  finished,  and 
charitable  manner,  I  could  not  help  recalling  the  motto  at  the  head  of 
his  London  journal, — "To  Assist  the  Inquiring,  Animate  the  Strug- 
gling, and  Sympathize  with  All." 

His  mission  seemed  to  be  always  to  teach  us  "how  to  neutralize 
the  disagreeable,  and  make  the  best  of  what  is  before  us."  His  per- 
sonal appearance  was  most  engaging ;  his  form  erect  and  tall,  bending 
only  to  express  the  most  exquisite  and  spontaneous  courtesy.  Indeed, 
I  never  saw  a  human  being  more  benignly  attractive. 

On  the  28th  of  August,  1859,  when  lacking  only  two  months  of 
completing  his  seventy-fifth  year,  Leigh  Hunt  quietly  fell  asleep.  He 
asked  to  be  buried  in  Kensal-Green  Cemetery,  and  his  wish  was 
obeyed.     Although  his  hair  was  white  as  snow,  his  dark  eye  remained 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  LEIGH  HUNT.  141 

full  of  sweet  and  tender  recognition  ;  and  his  voice,  to  the  last,  was 
expressive  of  sympathy  for  all  that  was  loftiest  and  best. 

He  was  passionately  fond  of  music,  and  almost  his  last  words  were 
in  applause  of  an  Italian  song  which  his  daughter  was  singing  to  him 
a  few  moments  before  he  passed  away. 


MARY   RUSSELL  MITFORD. 


By  JAMES   T.   FIELDS. 

I. 

I  ALWAYS  think  of  my  old  friend  as  the  Priestess  of  Cheerfulness. 
Her  laugh  was  musical,  and  her  manner  inspiring  to  that  degree 
we  all  felt  our  circulation  quickened  while  in  her  presence. 

She  used  to  say  to  me,  if  her  life  were  to  be  gone  over  again,  she 
would  study  medicine,  and  practise  as  a  physician.  And  what  a  treas- 
ure in  the  sick-room  she  would  have  become !  Her  habitual  sunny 
disposition  and  tender  sympathy  would  have  been  of  themselves  full 
of  healing-properties,  and  her  touch  would  have  been  a  sovereign 
remedy  for  aches  and  bruises. 

Hers  was  a  life  of  strange  vicissitudes.  When  she  was  eleven 
:years  old,  she  was  sent  to  a  young  girls'  school  in  London,  and  went 
to  her  books  of  study  in  real  earnest.  As  if  French,  Italian,  history, 
geography,  astronomy,  music,  singing,  drawing,  were  not  enough  to 
employ  her  faculties,  she  thirsted  for  Latin,  that  she  might  read  Virgil 
in  the  original.  If  I  remember  rightly,  she  told  me,  that,  when  she 
was  fourteen  or  fifteen  years  old,  she  got  the  prizes  for  French,  English, 
and  Latin  compositions  at  the  old-fashioned  London  school. 

Mary  was  always  a  precocious  child,  and  was  able  to  read  when  she 
was  only  three  years  old.  When  scarcely  more  than  an  infant,  her 
father  used  to  perch  her  on  the  table,  and  teach  her  to  recite  poetry. 
The  ballads  in  Percy's  "  Reliques "  were  her  delight,  and,  no  doubt, 
attuned  her  mind  to  the  harmony  of  verse,  and  gave  her  a  bias  towards 
the  simple  and  natural  in  poetry. 

Mary  was  a  great  reader,  even  in  her  early  childhood.  When 
scarcely  in  her  teens,  she  kept  a  journal  of  the  books  she  was  reading 
142 


MARY  RUSSELL   MLTFORD.  1 43 

at  that  period  ;  and  I  find  fifty-five  volumes  set  down  as  the  number 
of  miscellaneous  works  she  had  perused  in  thirty-one  days.  She  lit- 
erally devoured  whatever  came  in  her  way  that  was  worth  reading. 

When  still  only  a  young  lady,  she  became  a  writer  herself.  Having 
the  faculty  of  admiration  for  what  is  best  in  character  and  genius,  a 
happy  quality  worth  acquiring  by  all  young  persons,  she  used  to  write 
poems  expressive  of  her  feeling  for  the  prominent  poets  and  statesmen 
of  the  day.  In  1810  she  published  a  volume  of  miscellaneous  poetry; 
and  as  the  reviews  were  favorable,  and  the  sale  very  fair,  the  young 
lady  was  content. 

But  her  genuine  and  crowning  literary  success  was  "  Our  Village," 
a  book  of  country-sketches  ;  and  that  book  will  never  cease  to  be  read. 
Long  ago  it  found  its  natural  place  among  the  books  that  must  be 
read  at  least  once  in  everybody's  lifetime.  The  locality  of  "  Our  Vil- 
lage "  is  at  "Three-Mile  Cross,"  as  it  is  called,  near  Reading  in  Eng- 
land ;  and  I  have  many  times  ridden  with  the  dear  old  lady,  in  her 
little  pony-chaise,  miles  and  miles  round  about  that  charming  country. 
As  we  used  to  go  quietly  along  the  lovely  roads,  she  would  point  out 
the  scene  of  this  or  that  story,  as  she  had  written  it  out  in  her  beau- 
tiful pages.  Her  voice  was  one  of  the  most  magnetic  I  ever  heard  ; 
and,  when  she  repeated  poetry,  her  tones  were  far  above  singing.  On 
such  occasions,  when  the  poems  she  repeated  were  specially  dear  to 
her,  I  used  to  think,  during  the  recitation,  of  the  delicious  music  in 
the  first  movement  of  Beethoven's  "Moonlight  Sonata." 

She  was  greatly  interested  in  Longfellow's  and  Holmes's  poems, 
and  knew  many  of  them  by  heart.  Whittier  was  also  a  great  favorite  ; 
and  his  earlier  ballads,  especially  that  of  "Cassandra  Southwick,"  were 
constantly  in  her  memory  for  highest  praise.  She  was  greatly  delighted 
with  Hawthorne's  books,  and  he  was  one  of  her  choicest  heroes  in 
literature  to  the  last. 

Flowers  and  dogs  were  her  pets.  Over  a  bunch  of  geraniums  she 
would  discourse  eloquent  thoughts,  and  I  have  heard  her  say  the  droll- 
est things  to  her  canine  favorites.  She  never  could  be  quite  happy 
without  the  company  of  at  least  one  or  two  handsome  dogs.  She 
loved  horses,  too,  and  knew  their  points  accurately. 

She  died  in  1855,  at  the  age  of  sixty-eight,  worn  out  with  constant 
hard  work  begun  at  too  early  an  age  for  continued  sound  health.  For 
years  she  nursed  her  mother  and  father  through  repeated  illnesses  with 
unremitting  care  and  affection.  She  told  me  she  had  scarcely  known 
an  unbroken  night's  rest  after  she  became  old  enough  to  tend  upon  the 


144  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

sick-bed  of  her  dear  parents.  Intense  repose  and  peace  were  on  her 
dead  features,  as  if,  at  last,  she  was  really  taking  a  rest  her  anxious, 
watchful  life  had  never  known. 

II. 

FROM    MISS    MITFORD'S   LETTERS. 

"I  am  in  pain  about  this  squabble  with  America.'  If  it  comes  to 
fighting,  it  would  seem  to  me  like  a  civil  war.  Dear  Mr.  Fields  says 
that  the  Americans  are  much  amused  with  Daniel  Webster's  fish 
ebullition,  on  account  of  his  known  passion  for  fish  in  every  way,  —  for 
catching,  cooking,  and  eating  it.  To  have  partaken  of  one  of  Daniel 
Webster's  fish-chowders  at  Marshfield  forms  an  epoch  in  an  Ameri- 
can's life.  I  had  three  friends  here,  each  of  whom  at  different  times 
had  enjoyed  that  honor.  It  is  a  sort  of  soup,  composed  of  cod  and 
other  materials ;  and  the  great  statesman  leaves  whatever  guests  he 
may  have,  to  compose  it  with  his  own  hands.  Dear  Mr.  Fields  says, 
that,  if  it  comes  to  a  war,  he  will  side  with  England,  as  becomes  a  man 
who  has  eaten,  half  a  score  of  times,  whitebait  at  Blackwall.  I  must 
tell  you  a  conversation  he  had  with  Carlyle  at  some  great  dinner  (you 
know  what  a  blusterer  Carlyle  is). 

"  '  So,  sir,  ye're  an  American  ? '  quoth  the  self-sufficient  Scotchman. 

"  Mr.  Fields  assented. 

"  •  Ah,  that's  a  wretched  nation  of  your  ain  !  It's  all  wrong.  It 
always  has  been  wrong  from  the  vera  beginning.  That  grete  mon  of 
yours,  —  George  '  —  (did  any  one  under  the  sun  ever  dream  of  calling 
Washington  George  before?)  —  'your  grete  mon  George  was  a  mon- 
strous bore,  and  wants  taking  down  a  few  hundred  pegs.' 

"'Really,  Mr.  Carlyle,'  replied  my  friend,  'you  are  the  last  man 
in  the  world  from  whom  I  should  have  expected  such  an  observation. 
Look  at  your  own  book  on  Cromwell !  What  was  Washington  but 
Cromwell,  without  his  personal  ambition,  and  without  his  fanaticism  ? ' 

"  '  Eh,  sir  !  '  responded  Carlyle,  '  George  had  neither  ambition  nor 
religion,  nor  any  good  quality  under  the  sun,  —  George  was  just  Oliver 
with  all  the  juice  squeezed  out ! ' 

"  I  wish  you  had  heard  Mr.  Fields  tell  this  story.  I  have  known 
many  brilliant  talkers,  but  never  any  one  that  approached  him.  It  is 
the  triumph  of  meekness  and  animal  spirits  without  noise  or  abrupt- 


1  Fishery  dispute  in  1852. 


MARY  RUSSELL  M1TF0RD.  1 45 

ness, — full  of  enjoyment,  and  perfectly  unconscious.  His  conversa- 
tion is  for  your  pleasure  and  his  own,  without  an  idea  of  display. 
Another  thing  in  Carlyle  displeased  him  far  more.  Every  one  knows 
that  Emerson  makes  him  a  perfect  idol ;  and  it  was  thought,  that,  if 
Carlyle  cared  for  any  one  in  the  world,  it  was  for  Emerson.  I  have 
heard  it  said  of  them,  they  are  not  only  like  brothers,  but  like  twin- 
brothers.  Well,  remember  that  Emerson  and  Hawthorne  both  live 
at  Concord,  and  you  will  appreciate  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Carlyle's 
speech. 

"  '  Isna  there  a  place  called  Concord  near  ye  ?     What  like  is  it  ? ' 

"  '  A  pretty  little  New-England  town,'  was  Mr.  Fields's  answer,  'of 
no  political  importance,  but  lively  and  pleasant  as  a  residence.' 

"  '  Pretty  ?  Lively  ?  Ye  ken  I  had  fancied  it  to  be  a  dull,  dreary 
place,  wi'  a  drowsy  river  making  believe  to  creep  through  it,  slow  and 
muddy  and  stagnant,  like  the  folk  that  inhabit  it.' 

"  So  much  for  Mr.  Carlyle,  who  has  had  the  double  misfortune  of 
writing  according  to  the  humor — that  is,  the  ill-humor  —  of  the  mo- 
ment, without  the  slightest  regard  to  consistency  and  truth,  and  to  be 
surrounded  by  none  but  admirers,  or  listeners  borne  down  by  mere 
noise.  In  England,  his  fashion  is  waning  rapidly ;  and  I  have  no  doubt 
but  that,  like  most  overrated  men,  he  will  live  to  share  the  common 
fate  of  idols,  knocked  down  by  his  former  worshippers  in  revenge  of 
their  own  idolatry. 

"  Mr.  Fields  is  coming  back  in  the  spring,  thank  God  !  and  means  to 
bring  Mr.  Hawthorne  with  him.  He  wants  him  to  write  a  romance 
on  Sefton  Court,  with  which  he  has  been  more  struck  than  any  other 
thing  he  has  seen  in  England.  He  also  hopes  to  bring  Dr.  Holmes, 
my  pet  of  pets. 

"  Did  I  tell  you  that  my  beloved  friend  Mr.  Fields,  the  American 
publisher,  had  collected  seven  volumes  of  Mr.  De  Ouincey's  books, 
dispersed  over  different  magazines,  and  published  them  at  Boston,  and 
that,  the  last  thing  before  sailing,  he  took  down  to  him  the  author's 
profits  on  a  sale  of  three  thousand  copies  ?  Now,  this  was  the  more 
noble  and  generous  because,  to  three  letters  from  Boston  conveying 
this  offer,  Mr.  De  Quincey  had  sent  no  answer  whatever ;  and,  even 
when  this  admirable  edition  was  published,  Miss  De  Quincey  only 
wrote.  However,  on  his  arrival,  they  were  mutually  charmed.  Mr. 
Fields  said  that  Mr.  De  Quincey  was  the  most  courtly  gentleman  he 
had  seen  in  Europe." 


CHARLES     LAMB. 


By   JAMES   T.   FIELDS. 

WHEN  I  was  a  small  urchin,  and  heard  grown-up  people  talking 
enthusiastically  about  "  Lamb's  Tales,"  I  thought,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  they  were  conversing  about  something  to  eat ;  for  the  sub- 
ject of  food  is  commonly  uppermost  in  a  boy's  mind.  I  remember 
watching  the  woolly  flocks  in  our  neighborhood  as  they  nibbled  the 
grass,  and  wondering  how  people  cooked  those  stumpy  appendages. 

But,  as  I  grew  older,  I  came  to  learn,  that,  although  "  Lamb's 
Tales  "  were  not  what  I  imagined  them  to  be,  they  were  far  more 
nutritious,  and  eminently  worthy  of  all  the  praise  I  had  heard  bestowed 
upon  them. 

It  is  well  for  us  all  to  accustom  the  mind  to  keep  the  best  com 
pany  by  introducing  it  only  to  the  best  books.  What  precious  time  is 
thrown  away  in  days  like  these,  on  the  habitual  perusal  of  works  that 
ought  never  to  have  been  written !  Why  should  we  go  about  to  dis- 
cover what  is  the  newest  publication,  and  what  is  the  name  of  the 
writer  of  it,  when,  in  all  modern  English  literature,  there  is  no  name 
more  fragrant  than  that  of  the  author  of  "  Elia's  "  essays  ? 

With  a  wit  that  was  almost  unrivalled,  he  had  the  indigenous  fac- 
ulties of  courtesy,  generosity,  humanity,  and  benignity.  Scarcely  any 
modern  essayist  so  feeds  and  fertilizes  the  mind  as  Charles  Lamb  ; 
for  he  was  endowed  with  that  inexplicable  power  called  charm,  which 
holds  the  reader  like  a  spell.  He  makes  us  love  him,  as  we  turn  his 
pages,  as  few  authors  are  ever  enabled  to  do. 

Much  as  he  relished  the  elegancies  and  luxuries  of  life,  he  had  a 

still  higher  relish  for  the  luxury  of  goodness.     All  his  impulses  tended 

towards  the    poor  and    the    silent.     The   very  clay  of   which  he  was 

formed  seemed  to  have  a  kind  of  brotherly  religion  in  its  composition  ; 

and,  as  Coleridge  one  day  said  of   him,  "  All  things  are  shadows  to 
i46 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


H7 


Lamb,  except  those  which  move  the  affections.  No  power  on  earth 
can  hurt  the  purity  of  his  mind." 

De  Ouincey  says,  that,  after  dinner,  when  they  were  together, 
Lamb  and  he  always  took  a  short  nap  in  the  afternoon,  and  that  he, 
De  Quincey,  sometimes  pretended  to  go  to  sleep  first,  that  he  might 
watch  Lamb,  looking  like  an  angel,  in  his  serene,  unconscious  slumber. 

When  Lord  Brooke  was  about  to  die,  he  requested  that  it  might 
be  graven  on  his  tomb  that  "  Sir  Philip  Sidney  was  his  friend,"  con- 
sidering that  statement  to  be  fame  enough  for  any  man ;  and  just  that 


Charles  Lamb. 


feeling  all  who  had  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  Charles  Lamb  had  about 
him.     It  was  honor  enough  to  have  known  him  intimately. 

Lamb  was  a  poor  man's  son,  a  poor  man  himself,  —  bitterly  poor 
for  many  a  year  of  his  toiling  existence.  On  the  records  of  Christ's 
Hospital  in  London,  I  once  read  this  entry  :  — 

"October  9,  1782.  Charles  Lamb,  aged  seven  years.  Son  of  John  Lamb, 
Scrivener,  and  Elizabeth,  his  wife." 

During  eight  years,  Charles  remained  a  scholar  in  that  noble  es- 
tablishment. His  bosom-friend  among  the  boys  was  Samuel  Taylor 
Coleridge,  also  a  charity  scholar  in  the  same  "foundation." 

These  lads  are  described  — the  one  twelve  years  old,  and  the  elder 


148  CHARLES  LAMB. 

(Coleridge)  two  years  his  senior  —  strolling  up  and  down  the  cloisters  ; 
and  he  they  call  "The  Inspired  Charity  Boy,"  young  Sam,  is  reciting 
Pindar  in  Greek  to  his  companion,  and  commenting  freely,  in  his  sweet 
intonations,  on  the  ancient  bard.  Lamb  is  entranced  in  admiration 
of  Coleridge's  learning,  and  worships  him  as  the  god  of  his  young 
idolatry.  Both  pupils  are  above  their  years  in  knowledge,  far  higher 
up  in  learning  than  any  of  their  contemporaries  at  the  school ;  and  a 
brace  of  loving  friends  they  remain  all  their  lives. 

At  the  age  of  fifteen,  Lamb  took  up  his  pen  as  an  accountant,  to 
earn  his  own  living,  and  help  support  the  old  mother  and  father,  and 
delicate  sister,  at  home.  Would  you  mind  lifting  the  latch  with  me, 
and  looking  in  upon  this  humble  family,  as  they  sit  around  the  table  in 
their  modest  lodgings  at  No.  7  Little  Queen  Street,  in  Holborn  ? 

It  is  the  year  1796,  and  the  kind  old  father  is  rapidly  sinking  into 
dotage.  The  good  mother  has  lost  the  use  of  her  limbs,  poor  soul ! 
and  infirmities  are  increasing  upon  her.  Mary,  the  sister,  is  her  daily 
and  nightly  attendant,  and  takes  in  needlework,  that  she  may  add  her 
mite  to  their  slender  resources. 

There  they  sit, — father,  mother,  sister,  and  brother,  —  by  candle- 
light, Charles  amusing  the  old  gentleman  by  playing  cribbage  with  him, 
tired  though  the  poor  lad  may  be,  and  ready  to  drop  with  hard  work  at 
the  office.  Their  income,  all  told,  is  one  hundred  and  eighty  pounds 
a  year  ;  and  Charles,  at  that  time  writing  to  his  young  friend,  Coleridge, 
says,  "  If  we  can't  all  live  comfortably  on  this  sum,  we  ought  to  roast 
by  slow  fires." 

Soon  a  great  tragedy  befalls  this  family  ;  and  Lamb,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-one,  finds  himself  desolate  with  grief,  and  almost  in  despair. 
Rallying  from  the  blow,  he  sets  himself  resolutely  to  work  again,  and 
soon  becomes  a  writer  for  the  principal  magazine  of  that  day,  month 
after  month  inditing  those  exquisite  "  Elia  "  papers,  which  have  given 
him  perpetuity  in  fame. 

Tom  Hood  said  of  Lamb's  face,  "  It  was  no  common  countenance, 
—  none  of  those  willow-pattern  ones,  which  Nature  turns  out  by  thou- 
sands at  her  potteries,  —  but  more  like  a  chance  specimen  of  the 
Chinese  ware,  —  one  to  the  set,  unique,  antique,  quaint." 

And  of  this  precise  individuality  were  Lamb's  writings.  They 
stand  quite  by  themselves,  and  belong  to  none  of  the  so-called 
"schools."  He  gathered  manna  in  the  most  unpromising  wildernesses, 
and  seemingly  barren  rocks  had  moisture  in  them  for  his  purposes. 

Byron  used  to  be  called  the  spoiled  child  of  fortune.     Lamb  might 


CHARLES  LAMB.  1 49 

be  denominated  the  unspoiled  child  of  misfortune,  for  poverty  and 
disease  were  not  infrequently  his  close  companions.  But  how  uncom- 
plainingly he  always  speaks  of  his  ailments  !  One  day  he  wrote  to  his 
friend,  Bernard  Barton,  "  I  have  only  cough  and  cramp  upon  me  now, 
and  we  sleep  three  in  a  bed."  He  was  never  conceited  or  petulant, 
but  always  gentle,  loving,  and  generous. 

I  cannot  too  strongly  recommend  young  people  to  make  acquaint- 
ance with  the  writings  of  Charles  Lamb.  Every  thing  published  con- 
nected with  his  name  is  valuable.  His  letters  are  models,  and  rank 
with  the  best  specimens  of  epistolary  literature  in  the  language. 

The  "Tales  from  Shakspeare,"  by  Charles  and  his  sister  Mary,  are 
delightful  helps  to  a  better  understanding  of  the  plays, — the  best,  in 
fact,  ever  prepared  for  youthful  readers.  Macaulay  used  to  read  them 
over  and  over  with  fresh  enthusiasm. 

The  juvenile  works  by  Lamb  and  his  sister  are  admirable,  and  will 
not  stuff  the  head,  and  starve  the  heart,  like  much  that  is  written 
nowadays  for  young  people.  Lamb's  poems  are  full  of  pure  senti- 
ment, expressed  sometimes  in  a  very  quaint  and  original  manner. 
Some  of  his  verses  once  learned  can  never  be  obliterated  from  the 
memory.  In  such  pieces  as  "Angel  Help,"  "Herbert,"  and  "The 
Christening,"  we  recognize  a  master's  hand, — not  a  great  master  in 
verse,  but  a  very  devout  and  skilful  one.  He  had  that  priceless  qual- 
ity of  intellect,  a  capacity  for  veneration,  which  is  always  indicative  of 
superior  intelligence. 

Lamb's  sympathies  through  life  were  with  the  humblest  first.  He 
liked  chimney-sweeps,  especially  the  young  ones,  whom  he  called  "  in- 
nocent blacknesses."  He  said  the  little  fellows  preached  a  lesson  of 
patience  to  mankind  from  their  narrow  pulpits  (the  tops  of  chimneys) 
in  the  nipping  air  of  a  December  morning. 

A  lonely,  childless  man  himself,  he  dearly  loved  little  children. 
He  could  not  bear  to  think  of  them  as  being  trundled  off  to  bed  alone 
at  eight  o'clock  in  the  dark,  and  he  pleads  from  his  heart  to  have  the 
candle  left  a-burning  until  poor  nervous  Tom  and  Alice  drop  fast 
asleep  in  their  downy  cribs. 

Homely  dwellings  and  plain  hospitality  were  the  magnets  that  drew 
him  oftenest.  Old  books,  old  chairs,  old  tables,  old  china,  old  com- 
panions, he  loved  most  to  see  about  him.  He  used  to  say,  with  Shak- 
speare, "The  heavens  themselves  are  old /" 

His  jests  are  rememberable,  oftentimes  for  their  wisdom,  as  well 
as  their  fun  ;  as  when  somebody  was  discoursing  to  him  one  day  of 


150  CHARLES  LAMB. 

the  three  acids,  and  he  said,  "  You  have  not  mentioned  the  best  one,  — 
assid-uity."  He  said  one  day  of  a  lady,  "  She  is  not  an  intellectual 
woman  :  she  is  only  tinted  with  intellect."  They  were  speaking  once 
at  Proctor's  of  a  person  who  had  gone  wrong ;  and  a  lady  present  said, 
with  much  feeling,  — 

"Oh  !  where  was  his  guardian  angel  ?  " 
"Maybe,  marm,"  returned  Lamb,  "he  tired  him  out." 
Lamb's  lifelong  devotion  to  his  poor  insane  sister  Mary  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  traits  in  the  annals  of  affectionate  care.  His  inter- 
est in  early  life  had  been  strongly  drawn  towards  a  sweet  young  girl 
every  way  worthy  of  his  attachment ;  but  he  smothered  the  feeling  in 
his  breast,  and  resolved  that  no  earthly  tie  should  ever  be  permanently 
formed  that  might  interpose  a  divided  duty  between  him  and  his  unfor- 
tunate sister.  And  so  he  put  aside  all  thought  of  happiness  in  mar- 
riage, and  lived  solely  to  protect  and  cherish  the  stricken  woman  by 
his  side. 

Wordsworth,  in  his  most  tender  and  pathetic  lines,  written  after 
the  death  of  Lamb,  says,  — 

'•  Oh,  he  was  good,  if  e'er  a  good  man  lived  ! " 

And  Barry  Cornwall,  who  loved  Charles  Lamb  with  undying  affec- 
tion, tells  us  that  "  Elia  "  never  "gave  pain  to  a  human  being,  and  his 
genius  yielded  nothing  but  instruction  and  delight." 

Should  chance  ever  lead  any  of  my  readers,  when  in  England,  to 
visit  Edmonton,  in  Middlesex,  they  will  find  the  resting-place  of 
Charles  and  Mary  in  the  churchyard  there.  The  brother  and  sister 
are  lying  in  the  same  grave,  and  a  tall  upright  stone  indicates  the 
hallowed  spot. 

"  Still  are  they  faithful  :  like  two  vessels  launched 
From  the  same  beach  one  ocean  to  explore." 


THOMAS    HOOD. 


By  JAMES  T.  FIELDS. 

I  SUPPOSE  everybody  calls  this  author  Tom  Hood  because  every- 
body regards  him  with  a  kind  of  affection,  just  as  we  lovingly 
handle  our  brothers  and  cousins  and  school-fellows  as  Bill  and  Ned  and 
Dick,  and  never  loftily  call  them  William,  Edward,  and  Richard. 

Let  us  be  grateful  to  those  beneficent  authors  who,  in  their  works, 
have  taught  us  to  be  cheerful,  —  men  who  have  written  "  Pickwick 
Papers,"  and  "Punch  Papers,"  and  "  Sparrowgrass  Papers,"  and  all 
other  kinds  of  papers,  to  make  us  laugh  and  be  happy  together.  Mil- 
ton was  a  serious  man  for  the  most  part ;  but  even  Puritan  John,  coming 
to  himself,  sang  out  lustily,  — 

"  Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, — 


Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips,  and  Cranks,  and  wanton  Wiles, 
Nods,  and  Becks,  and  wreathed  Smiles. 

Sport,  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding-  both  his  sides." 


"  To  every  thing  there  is  a  season,"  says  the  best  of  books  ;  and  I 
am  very  glad  a  time  to  laugh  is  especially  enumerated  among  those 
seasons. 

But  there  is  a  kind  of  humor  abroad  in  the  world  which  is  to  be 
avoided  everywhere.  Indelicacy  is  never  funny.  Vulgarity  is  always 
out  of  place.  The  man  who  implants  in  my  memory  a  coarse  story, 
or  a  broad  jest,  does  me  an  injury  for  life,  and  is  forever  odious  in  my 
recollection.  I  thank  no  one  for  trying  to  make  me  laugh  at  the 
expense  of  decency.     Who  would  not  like  to  go  out  of  the  world  as 


152  THOMAS  HOOD. 

Hood  did,  feeling  sure  that  he  had  never  given  pain  to  any  one's  sense 
of  refinement,  but  that  he  had  added  smiles,  not  tears,  to  human  life  ? 

Hood's  unsullied  pages  are  as  nutritious  and  comforting  as  they 
are  amusing.  When  you  have  a  rebellious  tooth,  or  a  wicked  head- 
ache, or  an  extra  screw  of  rheumatism,  or  a  stab  in  the  back  by  a 
false  friend,  overhaul  your  Tom  Hood,  and,  my  word  for  it,  you  will 
feel  better  for  the  operation.  One  day  I  heard  this  order  given  from 
a  sick-bed,  "  Bring  a  bowl  of  gruel  and  the  second  volume  of  •  Hood's 
Own  ; '  and  it  sounded  most  sensible  and  encouraging.  I  once  asked 
a  friend,  who  had  long  and  dangerous  illnesses,  what  he  took  when 
the  spasms  were  severest ;  and  he  replied,  " '  Pickwick  Papers '  and 
'  Pagsley  Papers'  mixed." 

Blessings,  I  say,  on  all  who  have  contributed  to  the  harmless 
laughter  and  simple  amusement  of  mankind ;  who  have  aided  and 
abetted  in  the  cause  of  human  love  and  charity,  —  the  "  week-day 
preachers,"  as  Thackeray  calls  them,  who  have  done  what  they  could 
to  help  a  universal  good  will  to  man.  How  to  make  people  happier  is 
one  of  the  noblest  employments  of  man  or  woman  kind  ;  how  to  be 
generous  and  forgiving  to  frailty  ;  how  to  be  helpful  to  the  poor ;  how 
to  encourage  the  weak  and  the  suffering ;  how  to  be  neighborly  and 
considerate  towards  young  persons,  and  very  tenderly  disposed  towards 
the  feelings  of  little  children,  who  have  a  difficult  time  of  it,  poor 
things !  for  lack  of  sympathy,  and  are  shovelled  off  to  bed  at  eight 
o'clock,  while  everybody  else  is  having  a  good  time  down-stairs.  Now, 
all  these  amenities  of  life  Tom  Hood  came  on  a  special  mission  to  teach 
us  in  his  cheerful  pages.  He  was  a  wit,  a  humorist,  a  satirist,  but 
never  a  buffoon.  Great  artists  in  fun,  like  Shakspeare  and  Dickens 
and  Hood,  are  always  masters  of  the  revels,  but  are  never  mastered 
by  them. 

The  year  Campbell  published  his  "  Pleasures  of  Hope"  (1799)  was 
the  year  Hood  was  born.  As  soon  as  little  Tom  was  old  enough,  he 
was  apprenticed  to  an  engraver  ;  for  he  had  a  knack  at  drawing,  even 
in  those  early  days  :  and  this  accomplishment  served  him  well  in  his 
after-pursuits.  It  is  said  that  the  famous  Hogarth  could  sketch  a 
likeness  on  his  thumb-nail  when  occasion  required,  and  Hood  had  the 
same  facility  from  boyhood.  It  is  a  great  addition  to  any  one's  life  to 
know  how  to  draw,  and  it  is  something  that  can  be  readily  learned  in 
youth.  Nothing  is  more  useful  to  a  traveller  than  the  power  to  sketch 
the  countries  he  is  passing  through  ;  and  Hood  and  Thackeray  held  a 
ready  pencil,  which  they  employed  to  great  advantage  all  their  lives  long. 


THOMAS  HOOD.  1 53 

During  Hood's  boyhood,  he  was  the  support  of  his  mother,  and 
worked  steadily  to  keep  her  comfortable.  Everybody  who  knew  little 
Tom  in  those  days  loved  him,  he  was  so  full  of  fun  and  unselfishness. 
When  he  was  fifteen  years  old,  he  fell  into  ill-health  from  overwork, 
and  was  taken  to  Dundee  for  change  of  air,  which  air  he  did  not 
enjoy;    for,    writing   home    some    descriptive    verses    of    Dundee,    he 

says,  — 

"  It  abounds  so  in  smells,  that  a  stranger  supposes 
The  people  are  very  deficient  in  noses." 

When  he  was  twenty  years  old,  he  laid  down  the  graver,  and  took  up 
the  pen  for  a  permanent  instrument.  He  soon  got  employment  as 
associate  editor  on  the  staff  of  the  "  London  Magazine,"  and  his  clever- 
ness attracted  the  immediate  attention  of  Coleridge  and  Charles  Lamb. 
Henceforward  he  became  an  author  for  life,  and  gained  his  daily  bread 
by  literature.  Although  he  indulged  habitually  in  comic  writing,  he 
always  dressed  in  full  black,  and  commonly  passed  for  a  clergyman. 
His  marriage  was  a  very  happy  one ;  but  he  could  not  resist  playing 
off  all  sorts  of  pranks  on  his  good-natured  wife,  who  took  every  thing 
in  good  part,  like  a  sensible  woman  as  she  was. 

Ill-health  followed  poor  Hood  through  his  whole  career.  Long- 
fellow, who  called  to  see  him  one  day  in  1843,  with  Dickens,  described 
the  poet  to  me  as  a  small,  thin  man,  looking  very  pale  and  worn,  not 
saying  much  himself,  but  listening  to  Dickens  with  evident  affection 
and  interest.  A  perfectly  well  day  Hood  never  experienced  for  twenty- 
five  years ;  but  his  good  spirits  never  deserted  him,  and  his  most 
humorous  productions  were  composed  when  disease  was  preying  most 
severely  upon  him.  When  the  doctor  told  him  that  many  of  his  pains 
came  from  the  fact,  that,  anatomically,  his  heart  was  placed  lower  down 
than  is  usual,  he  replied,  "  The  more  need  for  me  to  keep  it  up,  then." 

One  day  he  said  to  his  wife,  "  Never  let  us  meet  trouble  half  way, 
but  let  him  have  the  whole  walk  for  his  pains."  His  energy  and  good 
spirits  triumphed  always  over  all  oppositions  to  health  and  personal 
comfort.  His  famous  poem  of  "Miss  Kilmansegg"  was  written  under 
the  most  adverse  circumstances,  when  he  was  suffering  from  weakness 
occasioned  by  loss  of  blood,  and  when  he  was  kept  alive  only  by  the 
doctor's  utmost  skill.  When  the  house  was  quiet,  and  everybody  else 
had  gone  to  bed,  that  was  his  time  for  writing.  The  family  used  to 
hear  him  laughing  to  himself  as  he  jotted  down  his  whimsical  fancies  ; 
and  some  of  his  most  elaborate  works  were  prepared  in  this  way,  as  he 
sat  or  reclined  on  the  sofa  alone  past  midnight. 


*54 


THOMAS  HOOD. 


Even  in  summer  his  blood  was  so  low  sometimes  that  he  shivered 
as  if  it  were  the  dead  of  winter.  "  My  hands  are  so  cold,"  he  writes 
to  Dr.  Elliot,  "  that  I  sit  up,  like  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley's  literary 
ancestor,  and  write  sonnets  with  my  gloves  on."  Poor  Hood !  He 
overheard  his  two  children  disputing  about  himself  one  day.  "  Papa's 
a  literary  man,"  said  Fanny.     "  He's  not,"  replied  her  brother.     "  I 

know  what  he  is."  —  "  What 
is  he,  then  ?  "  cried  Fanny  ; 
and  the  boy  replied,  "  He's 
not  a  literary  man  :  he's  an 
invalid." 

In  one  of  his  prefaces, 
written  after  a  long  and 
severe  illness,  Hood 
tells  his  readers,  "As 
to  my  health,  which 
is  the  weather  of  the 
body,  it  hails,  it  rains, 
it  blows,  it  snows,  at 
present  ;  but  it  may 
clear  up  by  and  by. 
Things  may  take  a 
turn,  as  the  pig  said 
on  the  spit."  His  for- 
titude and  fun  under 
trouble  never  desert- 
ed him.  He  never 
repined,  or  uttered  a 
complaint. 

He  was  only  forty- 
six  years  old  when  he 
died.  A  year  before  he  passed  away,  he  wrote  to  Dr.  Elliot  on  his 
birthday,  "  I  am  forty-five  ;  but  I  can't  tell  you  how  old  I  feel.  I  seem 
old  enough  to  be  your  grandfather ! "  Poor  sufferer  !  From  his  boy- 
hood it  had  been  a  hand-to-hand  fight  between  him  and  death,  and 
the  great  conqueror  cut  him  down  at  last.  One  day  he  said  to  some 
friends,  that  his  condition  would  be  irksome  enough,  but  for  the  com- 
fort and  consolation  he  derived  from  the  diversions  of  authorship,  and 
the  blessed  springs  of  literature. 

When  they  were  getting  up  a  subscription  in  London  for  his  monu- 


Thomaa  Hood. 


THOMAS  HOOD. 


J55 


ment,  some  of  the  most  distinguished  names  in  England  were  promi- 
nent on  the  list ;  but,  to  my  thinking,  those  small  sums  that  came  up 
from  the  working-people  of  Manchester  and  Bristol  and  Preston,  far 
outweighed  the  piles  of  guineas  poured  out  by  the  great  ones. 

Some  of  those  little  packages,  that  were  sent  in  from  the  working- 
districts,  were  marked,  "  From  a  few  poor  needle-women,"  "  From 
seven  dressmakers,"  "  From  twelve  poor  men  in  the  coal-mines."  The 
rich  gave  of  their  abundance  to  honor  the  wit  ;  the  Englishman  of 
genius,  the  great  author ;  but  the  poor  women  of  Britain  remembered 
who  it  was  that  sang  the  "Song  of  the  Shirt,"  and  "The  Bridge  of 
Sighs  ; "  and,  down  there  in  their  dark  dens  of  sorrow  and  poverty, 
they  resolved  to  send  up  their  mite,  though  coined  out  of  heart's 
blood,  for  the  good  man's  monument.  They  had  heard  all  about  their 
dying  friend,  who  had  been  pleading  their  cause  through  so  many 
years.  They  knew  that  he  had  been  sending  out  from  his  sick-cham- 
ber lessons  of  charity  and  forbearance,  reminding  Wealth  of  Want, 
Feasting  of  Fasting,  and  Society  of  Solitude  and  Despair. 

Hood's  breath  of  life,  so  fitful  for  years,  went  out  at  last  without 
a  struggle  or  a  sigh.  The  month  of  May  was  always  an  eventful  one 
to  him.  He  was  born  in  May,  married  in  May,  and  was  laid  to  rest 
among  the  pink  and  white  blossoms  of  May.  Just  as  the  service  ended 
at  his  grave,  his  son  noticed  that  a  lark  rose  up  from  the  spot,  and 
went  mounting  and  singing  over  the  mourners'  heads.  Who  shall  say 
that  the  soul  of  the  poet  was  not  companioned  thus  up  to  the  very 
gate  of  heaven  ? 

Hood  was  indeed  a  boon  to  the  literature  of  this  century ;  for  he 
had,  not  only  the  language  of  genius,  but  the  genius  of  language  as 
well.  He  was  facile  priuceps  in  diction  as  well  as  in  thought.  The 
ground  he  occupies  is  an  exceptional  one,  quite  as  peculiar  to  himself 
as  that  which  belongs  to  Tennyson  or  Dickens.  He  is  no  reproduc- 
tion of  anybody  else.  He  is  nobody's  echo,  nobody's  mantle-bearer. 
He  is  Hood  the  Only,  just  as  the  Germans  claim  for  Jean  Paul  that 
special  distinction  of  individuality. 

Hood,  for  a  long  time,  drew  all  the  fire  of  dulness  upon  his  writ- 
ings. His  critics  could  not  understand  the  wisdom  of  his  wit  and 
humor  ;  and  so  they  railed  at  him  as  a  joker  of  jokes,  and  a  mere  jester 
where  lengthy  visages  were  demanded.  But  he  lived  down  opposition, 
and  became  one  of  the  most  cordially  greeted  among  the  authors  of 
his  day.  Praise  was  lavished  upon  him  at  last  ;  but  he  was  made  of 
unspoilable  stuff,  and    so  was  never  tarnished  by  applause.      He  had 


156  THOMAS  HOOD. 

that  moral  force  which  is  never  blinded  by  the  dazzling  light  of  popu- 
lar admiration,  but  keeps  right  on  in  its  brave  endeavor  to  reform 
injustice,  and  every  kind  of  opposition  to  what  he  considered  Human 
Rights  for  all. 

It  is  a  very  pleasant  duty  I  have  in  commending  Hood  to  the 
young,  for  there  is  no  name  enshrined  with  more  that  is  commendable 
than  his.  We  sit  down  to  read  him  as  we  would  listen  to  a  friend  by 
our  own  fireside  ;  and,  when  we  part  company  with  him,  we  trust  he 
will  come  again  soon.  We  include  him  among  our  intimate  and  close 
companions,  —  with  Irving  and  Dickens  and  Charles  Lamb  and  Gold- 
smith and  Burns  ;  for  he  never  bores  us,  as  some  authors  do,  by  staying 
too  long:. 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


By  JAMES   T.   FIELDS. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  conversing  one  day  at  Abbotsford  with 
Washington  Irving  about  our  modern  English  poetry,  declared 
that  Campbell's  pieces  were  "real  diamonds,  and  diamonds,  too,  of  the 
first  water ;  for  poetry,"  said  the  author  of  "Waverley,"  "goes  by  qual- 
ity, not  by  bulk." 

Among  the  famous  authors  who  sleep  in  Westminster  Abbey,  there 
is  no  bard  whose  grave  is  more  familiar  to  American  footprints  than 
that  of  the  author  of  "  Hohenlinden."  One  of  the  first  pieces  our 
school-boys  learn  to  declaim  is  Campbell's  "  On  Linden,  when  the  sun 
was  low ;  "  and  the  young  orator  rarely  forgets  how  he  broke  down 
emphatically,  on  his  first  trial,  just  where  "  Iser  was  rolling  rapidly," 
or  at  that  critical  period  where  "  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun  "  were 
shouting  in  "their  sulphurous  canopy  !  " 

In  my  own  case,  I  remember  I  gave  out  ignominiously  at  that  tre- 
mendous passage  where  "every  charger  neighed  to  join  the  dreadful 
revelry."  If  a  trembling  urchin  in  our  school  got  on  to  "every  turf 
beneath  their  feet "  without  prompting,  we  all  looked  up  to  that  lad  as 
cut  out  for  distinction  ;  and  we  lent  him  marbles,  if  he  wished  to  borrow 
them,  without  collateral  security. 

That  spirited,  immortal  lyric,  "On  Linden,"  was  written  upon  an 
event  which  the  author  himself  witnessed.  In  December  of  the  year 
1800,  a  great  battle  was  fought  between  the  French  and  Austrians  at 
Hohenlinden,  a  village  in  Bavaria  ;  and  Campbell  climbed  up  the  walls 
of  the  monastery  of  St.  Jacob,  and  saw  the  dreadful  carnage  all  around 
him,  —  a  fire  seven  miles  in  circumference  covering  the  scene  of 
slaughter. 

It  is  said,  that,  when  Campbell  sent  his  now  famous  poem  to  be 

157 


158  THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 

printed  in  a   newspaper  in    England,  there   appeared   this   paragraph 
among  the  "  Notices  to  Correspondents  :  "  — 

"  To  T.  C.  —  The  lines  commencing  '  On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low,'  are  not 
up  to  our  standard.     Poetry  is  evidently  not  T.  C.'s  forte." 

What  a  comment  on  the  perspicacity  of  those  who  sometimes  sit 
in  judgment  at  the  editorial  desk  ! 

He  was  only  thirteen  years  old  when  he  donned  the  red  gown,  and 
went  up  to  the  University  of  Glasgow.  The  morning  he  entered  as  a 
student  found  him,  he  tells  us,  like  a  race-horse  on  the  day  he  knows 
he  is  to  be  brought  to  the  race-course,  and  is  so  agitated  he  refuses 
his  oats.  "  So  it  was  with  me,"  says  Campbell,  "  the  day  I  was  to 
enter  college.  The  joy  of  the  occasion  made  me  quite  unable  to  eat 
my  breakfast." 

Before  many  months  had  elapsed,  the  enthusiastic  young  scholar 
began  to  take  prizes  for  English  and  Latin  verse.  In  Greek,  too,  he 
began  very  early  to  excel,  and  soon  distanced  his  whole  class  in  trans- 
lation. 

Young  Campbell  was  so  desirous  to  see  himself  in  type,  even  at 
this  stage  of  his  college  life,  that  he  used  to  print  his  own  short  poems, 
and  then  sell  them  at  a  penny  each  to  his  class-fellows,  in  order  to  de- 
fray the  expenses.  A  Glasgow  man  remembers  seeing  the  beautiful 
boy  stand  at  the  college-gate  with  the  printed  slips  in  his  hand. 

At  fifteen  years  of  age,  we  find  the  young  fellow  appointed  exam- 
iner of  exercises  sent  in  by  the  other  members  of  the  college.  He 
gave  special  attention  to  elocution  in  those  days  ;  and  having  a  deep, 
melodious  voice,  and  great  acuteness  in  argument,  he  soon  became 
the  acknowledged  leader  in  a  debating  society.  His  gay  and  social 
disposition,  unassuming  manners,  and  remarkable  personal  attractions, 
soon  made  him  a  welcome  companion  everywhere. 

When  he  was  seventeen  years  old,  the  college  faculty,  as  a  reward 
for  his  exemplary  conduct,  gave  him  leave  to  visit  Edinburgh  for  the 
first  time;  and  it  shows  the  bent  of  his  inclination  toward  public 
speaking,  that,  on  arriving  in  the  old  city,  he  at  once  made  his  way  to 
the  court-house,  for  the  purpose  of  witnessing  an  important  trial  then 
going  forward. 

He  stood  among  the  spectators,  entranced  with  the  Lord  Advo- 
cate's eloquent  argument ;  but,  when  Mr.  Gerald  spoke  for  the  defence, 
young  Campbell  was  in  raptures,  and,  turning  to  a  stranger  near  him, 
whispered,  in  tones  of  astonishment, — 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  1 59 

"  By  Heavens,  sir,  that  is  a  great  man  !  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  the  stranger  answered.  "  He  is  not  only  a  great  man 
himself,  but  he  makes  every  other  man  in  the  court-house  feel  great 
who  listens  to  him." 

That  trial,  which  was  one  for  political  liberty,  made  Campbell  a  lover 
of  freedom  from  that  hour  ;  and  his  whole  after-life  was  inflamed  and  in- 
fluenced by  it.  What  he  did  for  Poland  in  her  terrible  struggle,  how  he 
spoke  and  wrote  in  her  defence,  and  how  he  defended  the  rights  of  man 
on  every  soil,  is  now  patent  to  the  whole  liberty-loving  race  of  mankind. 

When  young  Campbell  left  college,  with  all  the  honors  of  his  uni- 
versity, he  found  himself  too  poor  to  study  a  profession ;  and  the  cele- 
brated Napier  family  secured  him  as  a  tutor  for  a  short  time. 

His  outlook  was  far  from  encouraging  ;  and  he  had  serious  thoughts, 
as  Goldsmith  and  Coleridge  had  before  him,  of  trying  his  future  in 
America.  If  he  had  carried  out  this  intention,  his  personal  observa- 
tion would  never  have  allowed  him  to  make  such  an  unfortunate  blun- 
der in  natural  history  as  he  has  achieved  in  his  "Pleasures  of  Hope," 
when  he  sings  about  the  tigers  that  steal  along  on  Erie's  banks  ! 

While  the  bloom  was  still  on  his  cheek,  and  the  light  of  morning 
in  his  eye,  Campbell  leaped  into  the  arena  of  song  with  his  immortal 
"Pleasures  of  Hope."  He  was  scarcely  more  than  a  boy  when  he 
wrote  and  printed  the  poem  ;  but  he  struck  the  keynote  of  that  faith 
and  confidence  in  God  which  find  a  quick  response  in  the  longing, 
trusting  human  heart.  His  harp  rang  out  a  welcome  strain  so  loud 
and  clear  that  the  world  stopped  to  listen,  and  rejoice  over  his  advent 
into  the  world  of  poesy. 

"  The  Pleasures  of  Hope "  was  a  wonderful  production  for  a  lad 
just  out  of  college,  thickly  adorned  with  almost  inspired  lines, —lines 
worthy  of  a  veteran  bard.  "The  strength  of  the  eagle,"  says  Hallam, 
"is  to  be  measured,  not  only  by  the  height  of  his  place,  but  by  the 
time  he  continues  on  the  wing ; "  and  young  Campbell,  in  his  first 
essay,  proved  himself  fully  capable  of  a  sustained  effort. 

It  is  great  good  fortune  for  a  poet  to  make  a  hit  at  starting. 
Many  a  writer  tarries  in  the  Calypso  Island  until  the  sun  has  gone 
down,  and  Ithaca  is  still  afar.  At  an  age  when  most  young  men  are 
students,  Campbell  had  compassed  fame. 

"The  Pleasures  of  Hope"  was  published  in  April,  1799,  when  the 
author  was  not  quite  twenty-two  ;  and  he  at  once  became  a  noted 
character,  the  best  society  in  Edinburgh  flinging  its  doors  wide  open 
to  the  full-fledged  young  singer. 


i6o 


THOAfAS    CAMPBELL. 


Dugald  Stewart,  Henry  Mackenzie,  James  Graham,  and  Henry 
Erskine  took  him  by  the  hand  as  an  equal,  and  gave  him  just  that 
medicine  of  recognition  which  puts  health  and  heart  into  a  young 
author.  Men  of  supreme  genius  and  learning  smiled  a  welcome  upon 
him  at  once,  and  hailed  his  coming  with  a  volley  of  bravos  which  he 

never  forgot. 

Among  those  who  joined  in  the  ac- 
clamation was  the  famous  Madame  de 
Stael,  who  said  she  was  so  captivated 
with  one  episode  in 
the  poem,  that  she 
read  it  twenty  times, 
over,  without  lessen- 
ing the  admiration  a 
first  perusal  had  awak- 
ened in  her  mind. 

I  have  always 
thought  that  Camp- 
bell's inspiration  in 
truth  came  from  the 
Bible  in  a  marked  de- 
gree. "  The  Pleas- 
ures of  Hope "  will 
be  found  imbued  with 
the  very  spirit  of 
prophecy,  drawn  from 
that  never-failing 
fount  which  "flows 
fast  by  the  oracle  of 
God." 

As  the  glowing  student  hung  over  the  pages  of  that  old  book  of 
piety  and  imagination,  his  young  heart  went  out  in  strains  of  faith  and 
confidence  and  verity.  He  saw,  as  he  went  sounding  on,  what  treas- 
ures of  poetry  came  welling  up  to  him  out  of  that  sacred  shrine,  and 
he  could  not  choose  but  sing.  I  can  imagine  him  poring  over  the 
Book  of  Exodus,  and  lingering  with  a  thrill  of  satisfied  wonder  over 
such  passages  as  these  :  "  And  it  came  to  pass,  that  in  the  morning 
watch  the  Lord  looked  unto  the  host  of  the  Egyptians  through  the 
pillar  of  fire  and  of  the  cloud,  and  troubled  the  host  of  the  Egyptians." 
'•  And  Israel  saw  the  Egyptians  dead  upon  the  sea  shore."     "  With  the 


Thomas   Campbell. 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  l6l 

blast  of  thy  nostrils  the  waters  were  gathered  together,  the  floods 
stood  upright  as  an  heap,  and  the  depths  were  congealed  in  the  heart 
of  the  sea." 

No  doubt,  too,  that  the  splendid  imagery  of  the  one  hundred  and 
fourth  psalm  touched  the  inmost  soul  of  the  young  man,  and  that  he 
trembled  with  emotion  over  such  a  glorious  outburst  as  this  :  "  Thou 
art  clothed  with  honor  and  majesty.  Who  coverest  thyself  with  light 
as  with  a  garment :  who  stretchest  out  the  heavens  like  a  curtain  :  who 
layeth  the  beams  of  his  chambers  in  the  waters  :  who  maketh  the 
clouds  his  chariot :  who  walketh  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind." 

There  are  ample  evidences  in  Campbell's  poems,  that  he  was  a  close 
student  of  the  literature  of  all  those  ancient  books  so  full  of  hallowed 
meaning  to  a  young  and  sensitive  spirit  like  his.  There  were  no  vol- 
umes in  the  college  library,  or  in  any  other  library,  with  equal  utter- 
ances of  sublime  poetry  in  them ;  and  his  mother's  Bible  was  Campbell's 
most  inspiring  book. 

When  Campbell  walked  into  the  bower  of  English  poesy,  and  began 
to  sing,  Cowper  and  Burns  were  still  alive  :  and  both  of  them,  no 
doubt,  read  with  delight  this  new  venture,  —  "  The  Pleasures  of  Hope  ;  " 
for  no  poem  ever  made  wider  mark  all  over  Great  Britain.  It  fairly 
captivated  the  country  from  land's  end  to  land's  end,  and  everybody 
who  read  poetry  at  all  went  about  quoting  the  harmonious  numbers. 
Even  little  children  committed  to  memory  long  passages  from  the 
episodes  about  Poland  and  Liberty. 

"  Hope  for  a  season  bade  the  world  farewell, 
And  Freedom  shrieked  as  Kosciusko  fell," 

was  in  everybody's  mouth  before  the  summer  of  1799  was  over.  The 
poem  was  immediately  republished  in  America,  with  all  the  honors, 
except  that  very  important  one  of  letting  the  author  have  a  share  of 
the  profits. 

We  get  a  charming  glimpse  of  the  young  poet's  mother,  in  the 
pride  of  maternal  heart  over  her  gifted  child,  as  she  appeared  one  day, 
about  this  period  of  her  son's  fame,  in  a  silk-mercer's  shop  at  Glasgow. 

The  old  Scotch  lady  had  bought  a  shawl ;  and,  when  the  parcel  was 
folded,  the  usual  inquiry  was  made  as  to  where  it  should  be  sent.  The 
proud  parent  of  the  poet  drew  herself  up,  and  replied,  with  conscious 
dignity,  — 

"  Send  it  to  Mrs.  Campbell  of  Kirnan,  mother  of  the  author  of  '  The 
Pleasures  of  Hope.'  " 


1 62  THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 

There  are  poems  by  Campbell  which  can  be  forgotten  only  with  the 
language  in  which  they  are  written.  There  is  that  weird  "  Lochiel ! 
Lochiel !  beware  of  the  day!  "  which  no  school-book  of  our  time  ought 
to  omit,  and  no  collection  should  be  without.  It  will  never  be  an  easy 
task  to  banish  "Gertrude  of  Wyoming"  from  the  poetry  of  love  and 
passion;  or  those  noble  lyrics,  "The  Battle  of  the  Baltic,"  and  "Ye 
Mariners  of  England,"  from  the  patriot-poetry  of  the  world.  One 
of  the  most  touching  pieces  in  any  language  is  that  pathetic  story  in 
verse  about  a  parrot,  which,  by  the  force  of  genius,  is  lifted  into  an 
atmosphere  of  the  rarest  beauty. 

I  hardly  know  a  loftier  chant  than  "What's  hallowed  ground?" 
There  are  stanzas  in  that  poem  which  make  the  blood  tingle,  and  the 
pulses  leap  along  the  lines.  I  have  heard  our  own  American  Halleck 
quote  the  whole  of  this  poem  from  memory,  and  then  challenge  the 
world  to  produce  sixteen  verses  of  grander  sentiment  and  loftier  aim. 
And  then  there  are  "  Lord  Ullin's  Daughter,"  "The  Soldier's  Dream," 
"The  Ode  to  Burns's  Memory,"  "The  Last  Man,"  and  scores  of  other 
pieces  which  have  no  rivals  in  English  verse,  all  attesting  the  genius 
of  the  man  who  gave  his  first,  best  years  to  song. 

Campbell  lived  many  years  in  a  pleasant  little  cottage  in  Sydenham, 
not  far  from  where  the  Crystal  Palace  now  stands.  He  used  to  write 
his  poems  in  a  small  parlor  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  then  shout 
the  verses  out  sonorously,  that  he  might  judge  how  they  would  sound 
in  print. 

Friends  of  mine,  who  often  visited  the  poet  when  he  lived  at  Syden- 
ham, have  described  to  me  the  conversational  powers  of  Campbell  as 
exceptionally  brilliant,  and  the  recitations  of  his  own  poems  as  some- 
thing to  be  long  remembered.  His  wife,  they  said,  was  a  singularly 
beautiful  person,  full  of  admiration  and  love  for  her  gifted  husband. 

It  is  sad  to  think  of  this  bard,  so  favored  in  his  youthful  career, 
dying  at  the  age  of  sixty-seven  (in  1844),  worn  out  with  anxiety  and 
unrest. 

Domestic  afflictions  in  various  forms  came  heavily  upon  him  as  the 
years  went  by,  and  the  clouds  gathered  darkly  about  his  setting  sun  ; 
but  I  like  to  remember  that  the  poet  of  Hope  uttered  these  memorable 
words  not  long  before  he  died  :  — 

"  It  is  an  inexpressible  comfort,  at  my  time  of  life,  to  be  able  to 
look  back,  and  feel  that  I  have  not  written  one  line  against  Religion  or 
Virtue." 

I  have  been  frequently  asked  by  young  people  how  the  poet  himself 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  1 63 

pronounced  his  own  name.  Let  me  answer  the  question  here.  One 
day,  in  1838,  when  he  was  sitting  for  his  portrait  to  an  American  painter 
in  London,  he  turned  to  the  artist,  and  said,  — 

"Why  do  the  Americans  always  call  me  Camel?  You  see  I  have 
no  hump  on  my  back  !  " 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  tributes  ever  offered  by  one  poet  to  an- 
other is  Winthrop  Praed's  verses  in  the  form  of  a  charade  on  Camp- 
bell's name.  It  is  too  graceful  a  compliment  in  verse  to  be  omitted 
whenever  Thomas  Campbell  is  the  subject  of  eulogy,  and  I  have 
special  pleasure  in  commending  it  to  my  friends  who  may  read  this 
article. 

"  Come  from  my  first,1  ay,  come  ! 

The  battle-dawn  is  nigh ; 
And  the  screaming  trump,  and  the  thundering  drum, 

Are  calling  thee  to  die. 
Fight  as  thy  father  fought ! 

Fall  as  thy  father  fell ! 
Thy  task  is  taught,  thy  shroud  is  wrought, 

So  forward,  and  farewell ! 

Toll  ye  my  second*  toll ! 

Fling  high  the  flambeau's  light ! 
And  sing  the  hymn  of  a  parted  soul 

Beneath  the  silent  night ! 
The  wreath  upon  his  head, 

The  cross  upon  his  breast, 
Let  the  prayer  be  said,  and  the  tear  be  shed, — 

So  take  him  to  his  rest. 

Call  ye  my  whole,*  ay,  call 

The  lord  of  lute  and  lay  ! 
And  let  him  greet  the  sable  pall 

With  a  noble  song  to-day. 
Go,  call  him  by  his  name  ! 

No  fitter  hand  may  crave 
To  light  the  flame  of  a  soldier's  fame 

On  the  turf  of  a  soldier's  grave." 

1  Camp.  2  Bell.  3  Campbell. 


COLLEGE   LIFE   OF  MACAULAY. 


By  E.   P.  WHIPPLE. 

THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  was  probably  one  of  the 
most  precocious  of  those  boys  whose  premature  intelligence 
afflicts  their  fathers  and  mothers  with  the  fear  that  they  will  either 
die  young,  or  that  their  early  brightness  of  intellect  will  result,  as  the 
years  roll  on,  in  making  them  pretentious  intellectual  fops  and  coxcombs, 
particularly  odious  to  all  men  of  good  sense,  and  wide  experience  of  the 
world. 

Now,  Macaulay,  the  most  precocious  of  these  youths,  lived  to  the 
age  of  sixty,  and  left  behind  him,  as  the  results  of  his  labor  in  life, 
many  important  additions  to  the  literature  and  history  of  Great  Britain. 
The  child,  in  some  respects,  predicted  the  man ;  but  still,  what  the 
man  accomplished  exceeded  all  the  promise  of  the  child.  This  cir- 
cumstance leads  us  to  consider  some  facts  commonly  overlooked  by  the 
biographers  of  "marvellous"  boys. 

Lord  Brougham  said,  in  his  old  age,  that  he  learned  more  during 
the  first  four  years  of  his  life  than  he  had  ever  learned  since  that  time. 
He  meant,  of  course,  that  the  child,  when  first  introduced  into  this 
world,  finds  itself  surrounded  with  wonderful  things,  which  it  investi- 
gates with  insatiable  curiosity,  and  welcomes  every  explanation  of  them 
with  a  rapture  of  delight. 

Brougham  fixed  the  point  at  which  the  instinctive  reception  of 
knowledge  ceases  to  be  accompanied  by  a  glow  of  ecstasy,  at  the  age 
of  four.  After  that  period,  familiarity  with  the  objects  which  had  at 
first  excited  the  emotions  of  wonder  and  rapture,  tends  to  make  the 
nature  of  the  child  harden  and  stiffen  into  what  we  call  his  individu- 
ality, as  John  this,  or  Thomas  that.     The  age  when  the  schoolmaster 

or  schoolmistress  takes  hold  of  him  is  just  that  age  when  he  is  apt  to 

164 


COLLEGE  LIFE    OF  MA  CAUL  AY.  165 

resist  the  reception  of  new  knowledge  with  as  much  wilfulness  as  he 
formerly  showed  eagerness  in  acquiring  it. 

A  boy  of  six  or  eight  or  ten,  even  of  twelve,  is  commonly  a  hard 
creature  to  manage,  when  an  attempt  is  made  to  open  to  him  the  mys- 
teries of  arithmetic,  geography,  and  grammar. 

Now,  Macaulay  was  one  of  those  exceptional  boys  who  are  inflamed, 
long  after  the  age  of  four  or  six,  with  the  same  devouring  thirst  for 
information  which  characterizes  the  child  on  his  first  entrance  into  this 
marvellous  world.  Every  thing  he  learned  acted  as  a  powerful  stimu- 
lant, urging  him  to  learn  more. 

The  mere  instinctive  appetite  for  knowledge  was  continued  in  him, 
at  least  to  the  age  of  fifteen  ;  and  his  acquisitions,  accordingly,  be- 
tween the  ages  of  four  and  fifteen,  were  enormous.  It  is  hardly  neces- 
sary to  refer  to  the  fact  that  he  was  deep  in  books  very  soon  after  he 
was  weaned,  and  that  he  put  literature  upon  his  mind  long  before  his 
parents  consented  to  allow  his  body  to  be  clothed  in  the  boyish  dignity 
of  jacket  and  trousers. 

The  remarkable  thing,  therefore,  about  him  is,  that  his  child-like 
absorption  in  whatever  engaged  his  attention  for  the  time,  was  ex- 
tended so  far  beyond  the  period  of  childhood,  that  it  may  be  said,  his 
inclinations  were  identical  with  his  duties  as  a  pupil,  and  that  he  never 
required  to  be  trained  in  the  exercise  of  the  faculty  of  "attention." 

This  training  is,  according  to  the  testimony  of  all  educators,  at 
once  difficult  and  indispensable.  If  a  boy  will  not  "attend"  to  his 
studies,  if  he  cannot  be  seduced  or  compelled  to  concentrate  his  mind 
on  a  subject,  he  must  remain  an  ignoramus,  though  all  the  great 
teachers  of  the  world  should  combine  to  make  him  a  scholar. 

Macaulay  was  attentive  without  any  exertion  of  will ;  because  any 
prospect  of  new  knowledge  spread  out  before  him  so  stimulated  his 
intellectual  curiosity,  and  fascinated  his  imagination,  that  the  only 
danger  was,  that  the  rapt  student  would  neglect  the  ordinary  proprieties 
of  his  toilet,  and  appear  in  his  class  as  a  sloven  in  dress. 

It  has  been  customary  to  lay  stress  on  his  memory  as  his  most 
wonderful  faculty  ;  but  his  memory  was  so  closely  connected  with  his 
sensibilities  and  imagination,  that  it  can  be  hardly  distinguished  as  a 
particular  power.  He,  like  other  people,  only  remembered  what  deeply 
interested  him;  but  he  was  interested — joyously  and  delightfully  in- 
terested—  in  hundreds  of  things  which  had  little  interest  for  other 
people. 

As  a  boy,  he  had  mastered  the  leading  facts  of    the   histories  of 


1 66  COLLEGE  LIFE    OF  MA  CAUL  AY. 

England,  France,  Italy,  and  Spain  ;  as  a  boy,  he  could  recite,  off-hand, 
Scott's  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  or  the  first  six  books  of  Milton's 
"  Paradise  Lost,"  without  missing  a  word  ;  but  his  memory,  as  to  these 
things,  did  not  differ  from  that  of  another  schoolmate,  who  could  not 
recollect  a  single  historical  date,  or  a  line  of  Scott  or  Milton,  but  who 
had  a  vivid  remembrance  of  a  game  of  foot-ball  or  base-ball  in  which 
he  had  borne  a  triumphant  part,  and  which  he  had  intensely  enjoyed. 

Macaulay's  thorough  enjoyment  of  the  facts  stored  in  his  mind 
was  the  reason  why  they  never  escaped  from  what  is  called  his  mem- 
ory. Like  the  rest  of  the  world,  he  forgot  thousands  of  facts  in  which 
he  had  no  interest,  and  which  could  not  serve  him  morally  or  intellect- 
ually ;  and  this  power  to  forget  what  is  worthless  is  almost  as  valuable 
to  the  student  as  the  power  to  remember  what  is  useful.  Indeed,  one 
of  his  most  intimate  acquaintances  declared  his  belief,  that,  whether 
as  boy  or  man,  he  never  learned  any  thing,  or  wrote  any  thing,  which 
it  "  went  against  his  grain  "  to  learn  or  write. 

The  boy's  precocity  may  well  have  astounded  his  parents.  His 
taste  for  books  was  confined  to  no  one  department  of  literature,  but 
was  universal.  Any  thing  which  was  printed,  his  mind  would  devour 
with  the  greediness  of  appetite  that  other  boys  display  for  green  apples 
and  cherries,  and  for  nuts,  tarts,  candy,  and  pound-cake ;  and,  when  his 
mind  was  set  on  fire  by  a  book,  he  proceeded  instantly  to  write  some- 
thing in  emulation  of  it. 

Hannah  More  was  especially  fascinated  by  what  may  be  called  this 
baby  of  letters,  as  distinguished  from  the  man  of  letters,  and  delighted 
to  have  him  at  her  residence  in  Barley  Wood.  She  had  known  most 
of  the  celebrities  of  the  last  half  of  the  eighteenth  century,  —  Garrick, 
Johnson,  Burke,  Goldsmith  among  others  ;  but  she  probably  never  re- 
ceived more  delight  from  their  conversation  than  she  experienced  in 
listening  to  the  unguarded,  innocent,  confident  judgments  on  literature 
poured  forth  by  this  loquacious  boy,  for  whom  she  felt  a  half-motherly 
fondness. 

Here  was  "the  little  dumpling  of  a  fellow"  palpably  before  her, 
with  his  big  head  placed  on  stooping  shoulders,  and  his  "whitish  "  com- 
plexion occasionally  reddening  with  his  vehemence,  reading  ravenously, 
talking  volubly,  and  giving  the  impression  that  his  body  was  all  brain, 
so  quickly  did  his  physical  frame  quiver  and  thrill  with  every  thought 
and  feeling  which  passed  through  it. 

"  Tom,"  she  wrote  to  his  father,  when  Tom  was  about  eleven, 
"ought  to  have  competitors.     He  is,"  she  adds,  "like  the  prince  who 


COLLEGE  LLFE    OF  MA  CAUL  AY. 


167 


refused  to  play  with  any  thing  but  kings."  And  again  :  "The  quantity 
of  reading  Tom  has  poured  in,  and  the  quantity  of  writing  he  has 
poured  out,  is  astonishing."     She  had  the  good  sense  to  advise  him, 


College  Life  of  Macautay. 


when  he  was  only  six  years  old,  to  begin  to  form  a  library  composed  of 
books,  which,  when  he  grew  to  be  a  scholar,  would  be  useful  and  agree- 
able to  him  then.  And,  about  eighteen  months  afterwards,  she  thanked 
him  for  two  letters,  "so  neat  and  free  from  blots  ;  "  and  she  tells  him, 
as  a  reward,  to  go  to  a  prominent  London  bookseller,  and  buy,  on  her 
account,  some  leading  English  classic,  in  prose  or  verse.     "Then,"  she 


168  COLLEGE  LLFE   OF  MACAULAY. 

says,  "  I  want  you  to  become  a  complete  Frenchman,  that  I  may  give 
you  Racine." 

The  great  merit  of  Hannah  More's  advice  to  the  juvenile  Macaulay 
is  one  which  all  educators  of  the  young  should  take  to  heart.  It  con- 
sists in  giving  or  lending  to  a  bright  and  generous  boy  or  girl  a  book 
which  is  one  that  he  or  she  is  incompetent  to  appreciate  at  the  time, 
but  which  remains  as  a  strong  stimulant,  urging  both  boy  and  girl  to 
become  intelligent  enough  to  earn  the  right  to  read  it. 

In  1812  Macaulay's  father  sent  him  to  a  private  school,  kept  by  an 
Episcopal  clergyman  of  extreme  evangelical  views,  by  the  name  of 
Preston.  Sir  William  Maule,  an  eminent  English  judge,  once  declared 
that  the  public  schools  of  England  made  sad  dogs,  and  the  private 
schools  poor  creatures.  Macaulay  and  the  other  pupils  of  Mr.  Pres- 
ton's school  disproved,  in  their  after-life,  the  last  half  of  Sir  William's 
assertion.  The  school  was  near  Cambridge  ;  and  Macaulay,  at  the 
age  of  thirteen,  made  a  warm  friend  of  Dean  Milner,  the  president  of 
Queen's  College,  who  was  also  a  friend  of  his  father.  The  dean  de- 
lighted in  the  boy  ;  cordially  welcomed  him  in  his  visits  to  the  uni- 
versity, lodging  him  in  his  own  apartments ;  and  wrote  to  Zachary 
Macaulay,  "  Your  lad  is  a  fine  fellow.  He  shall  stand  before  kings. 
He  shall  not  stand  before  mean  men." 

Among  the  pupils  at  Mr.  Preston's  school  was  the  eldest  son  of 
the  great  philanthropist,  Wilberforce ;  and  this  stripling,  who  after- 
wards became  one  of  the  most  eminent  prelates  of  the  English  Church, 
seems  to  have  been  one  of  the  most  provoking  boys  that  ever  vexed  a 
schoolmaster,  or  roused  the  opposition  of  his  school-fellows. 

"We  have  had,"  writes  Macaulay  to  his  father,  "the  first  meeting 
of  our  debating-society  the  other  day,  when  a  vote  for  censure  was 
moved  for  upon  Wilberforce  ;  but  he,  getting  up,  said,  '  Mr.  President, 
I  beg  to  second  the  motion.'     By  this  means  he  escaped." 

Mr.  Preston  demanded  that  his  pupils  should  not  only  go  to  church 
on  Sunday,  but  write  out  an  analysis  of  the  sermon  they  heard.  "  I 
cannot  help  thinking,"  the  boy  writes  to  his  father,  "that  Mr.  Preston 
uses  all  imaginable  means  to  make  us  forget  it ;  for  he  gives  us  a  glass 
of  wine  each  on  Sunday,  and  on  Sunday  only,  the  very  day  when  we 
want  to  have  all  our  faculties  awake  ;  and  some  do  literally  go  to  sleep 
during  the  sermon,  and  look  rather  silly  when  they  awake.  I,  however, 
have  not  fallen  into  this  disaster." 

While  at  this  school,  Macaulay  not  only  continued  his  habit  of  wide 
miscellaneous  reading,  but  submitted  himself,  with  much  docility,  to 


COLLEGE  LLFE    OF  MAC  AULA  Y.  169 

the  technical  discipline  by  which  boys  in  general  acquire  the  solid 
foundations  of  their  after-knowledge  of  the  languages  and  the  mathe- 
matics. At  the  same  time,  he  began  to  develop  that  self-assertion  ; 
that  positiveness  amounting  to  dogmatism  ;  that  confidence  in  his  own 
opinions,  derived  from  his  singularly  vivid  perceptions  of  the  facts  on 
which  they  were  founded,  which  characterized  him  from  the  moment 
he  emerged  from  obscurity  into  the  full  blaze  of  notoriety,  —  a  notoriety 
which  was  to  last  from  the  appearance  of  his  article  on  Milton,  in  1825, 
to  his  death  thirty-five  years  after,  when  his  "Essays"  and  his  "His- 
tory "  were  so  popular  as  to  confer  on  his  heirs  more  than  the  ordinary 
income  of  a  baron  in  the  peerage  of  Britain. 

His  father,  the  most  self-denying  and  humble,  as  well  as,  where 
duty  was  concerned,  the  most  intrepid,  of  men,  heard  that  his  son  had 
become  distinguished  in  Mr.  Preston's  school  for  the  unseemly  loud- 
ness of  voice  with  which  he  propounded  questionable  propositions,  and 
for  the  audacity  with  which  he  defended  them  by  unsound  arguments ; 
and  he  wrote  sharply  to  the  lad,  advising  him  to  put  on  the  ornament 
of  a  meek  and  quiet  spirit,  and  to  avoid  every  appearance  of  a  presump- 
tuous and  a  contentious  one. 

The  boy  of  fourteen  winced  under  these  reproofs ;  but  he  still  felt 
that  his  father  did  not  appreciate  the  advances  he  was  constantly  mak- 
ing in  various  departments  of  learning,  or  understand  the  reason  of  the 
vehemence  which  impelled  him  to  correct  misinformation  in  matters 
of  fact,  and  expose  fallacies  in  matters  of  argument,  though  the  persons 
who  made  the  false  statements,  and  indulged  in  the  bad  reasoning, 
happened  to  be  his  elders. 

Indeed,  that  immense  intellectual  curiosity  and  receptiveness,  which, 
in  his  special  case,  had  been  prolonged  far  beyond  the  period  when  a 
decided  and  somewhat  resisting  individuality  ordinarily  appears  in  a 
vigorous  boy,  was  now  being  subordinated  to  the  growth  of  what  proved 
to  be  one  of  the  strongest,  most  independent,  and  most  fearless  indi- 
vidual characters  that  appeared,  either  in  the  literature  or  politics  of 
his  time. 

When,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  he  entered  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge, his  friends  at  the  university  were  such  students  as  Derwent 
and  Henry  N.  Coleridge,  Praed,  Charles  Villiers,  Charles  Austin,  and 
the  eldest  sons  of  Earl  Gray  and  Sir  John  Romilly,  —  all  of  whom 
fulfilled,  as  men,  the  promises  of  their  youth.  With  the  minds  of  these 
companions,  his  own  intellect  was  brought  into  incessant  friendly  con- 
tact or  collision.     The    conflict    between   the    minds   of   these  bright 


170  COLLEGE   LIFE    OF  MA  CAUL  AY. 

young  fellows  was  specially  exhibited  in  the  debates  of  the  Cambridge 
Union,  the  greatest,  perhaps,  of  all  college  debating-societies. 

The  most  formidable  opponent  that  Macaulay  met  in  those  days 
was  Charles  Austin,  the  ablest  student  in  the  university,  and  whose 
fees  afterwards,  as  a  leading  advocate,  were  said  to  amount  to  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  dollars  a  year  for  several  years.  Austin  cured 
Macaulay  of  the  mild  forra  of  Toryism  in  which  he  had  been  brought  up, 
and  made  him  almost  a  Radical.  The  contests  between  them  were  as 
fierce  as  those  between  two  youthful  wrestlers,  each  eager  to  throw  the 
other,  and  each  gaining  new  strength  by  every  effort  at  victory  over 
the  other.  But  it  was  not  only  with  pen  that  Macaulay  disputed.  At 
every  hour  of  the  day  or  night  he  was  ready  for  conversation  with  any 
fellow-collegian  who  preferred  talking  to  lounging  or  sleeping ;  and  as 
long  "as  a  door  was  open,  or  a  light  burning  in  any  of  the  courts," 
there  was  Macaulay,  eager  to  begin  or  renew  a  discussion  with  the 
solitary  student,  who  had  not  gone,  like  his  fellows,  ignominiously 
to  bed. 

Meanwhile  his  obedience  to  college  laws  and  discipline,  and  his 
attendance  at  lectures  and  chapel,  were  so  exemplary,  that  he  was 
never  once  "disciplined." 

The  political  enthusiasm  of  Macaulay  manifested  itself  early  in  his 
university  career.  On  one  occasion,  of  a  parliamentary  election  in 
Cambridge,  he  almost  dragged  his  companion  to  the  scene  of  action, 
where  an  infuriated  body  of  non-electors  were  mobbing  the  successful 
candidates.  Macaulay  intensely  enjoyed  the  popular  riot  until  a  dead 
cat  suddenly  hit  him  square  in  the  face.  The  person  who  threw  it 
came  up  to  him  at  once,  apologized,  said  he  had  no  prejudice  against 
him  because  he  had  on  the  student's  gown,  and  assured  him  that  the 
cat  had  been  intended  for  Mr.  Adeane,  one  of  the  candidates  elected. 
"I  wish,"  Macaulay  ruefully  replied,  "that  you  had  meant  it  forme, 
and  hit  Mr.  Adeane." 

It  is  said,  that,  long  after  Macaulay  and  Charles  Austin  had  left 
the  university,  and  were  in  the  fulness  of  their  fame,  they  met  as 
guests  at  Bowood,  the  country-house  of  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne. 
One  morning,  at  breakfast,  they  referred  to  some  experiences  in  their 
college  career ;  and,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  they  continued 
their  conversation  over  the  hearth-rug,  as  they  faced  each  other  at 
each  end  of  the  chimney-piece. 

One  topic  suggested  another,  and  they  went  on  recalling  the  whole 
delightful  scenes  of  their  university  contests.     The  lords,  ladies,  artists, 


COLLEGE  LIFE    OF  MACAULAY.  171 

politicians,  men  of  letters,  men  of  the  world,  who  composed  the  "select 
party  "  assembled  at  Bowood,  gathered  in  a  semicircle  around  the  two 
renowned  talkers,  and  listened  without  saying  a  word.  The  stream  of 
conversation  flowed  on  until  dinner-time,  with  only  a  short  break  in  it 
for  luncheon. 

It  is  a  pity,  that,  during  the  eight  or  ten  hours  thus  consumed  in 
college  reminiscences,  no  reporter  was  present  among  the  many  de- 
lighted auditors.  A  record  of  such  a  conversation  would  have  given 
a  life-like  view  of  the  circumstances,  which,  during  his  residence  at 
Cambridge,  stimulated  the  faculties  of  Macaulay,  brought  out  all  the 
acquisitions  he  had  stored  in  his  wonderful  memory,  and  strengthened 
his  character  by  compelling  him  to  struggle  with  other  forcible  indi- 
viduals, as  well  as  to  question  the  statements  they  made,  or  answer  the 
arguments  they  propounded. 

As  his  literary  style  was,  perhaps,  the  chief  cause  of  his  extraor- 
dinary popularity,  it  may  be  well,  in  addressing  students,  to  make  an 
attempt  here  to  account  for  it.  First,  it  may  be  said  that  his  knowl- 
edge, wide  as  it  was,  was  very  exactly  arranged  in  his  mind.  It  did 
not  possess  him,  but  he  possessed  it.  The  consequence  was,  that  it 
did  not  lie  in  his  mind  in  that  state  of  slovenly  confusion  which  char- 
acterizes the  acquirements  of  those  other  youthful  students  who  have 
an  exceptional  power  of  taking  in  great  masses  of  information,  but  no 
corresponding  faculty  to  dispose  of,  and,  as  it  were,  to  pigeon-hole,  it. 

Then,  the  youth  loved  his  younger  brothers  and  sisters  with  the 
most  intense  affection,  and  was  naturally  desirous  to  tell  them  all  the 
surprising  facts  which  had  delighted  him  as  they  were  acquired  by  his 
diligence.  To  make  them  understand  what  was  beyond  their  capacity 
to  apprehend  in  the  books  where  they  were  recorded,  he  was  compelled 
to  employ  the  simplest  words,  and  make  his  exposition  clear,  pointed, 
and  agreeable. 

In  his  vacations  he  would  talk  to  them,  day  after  day,  never  satis- 
fied until  he  had  succeeded  in  lodging  in  their  minds  the  facts  and 
principles  which  filled  and  animated  his  own. 

In  his  struggles  in  debate  with  his  fellow-students  of  Cambridge 
University,  he  found  that  clearness  of  statement  and  argument  was 
the  first  requisite  demanded  of  him  who  aspired  to  carry  the  votes  of 
any  assembly  of  young  men. 

He  formed  his  notion  of  the  condition  of  mind  of  the  great  public 
he  aspired  to  instruct  and  control  by  the  confusion  of  thought  he  de- 
tected in  his  brothers  and  sisters,  and  in  the  young  men  he  mentally 


172  COLLEGE  LLFE   OF  MA  CAUL  AY. 

wrestled  with  in  college.  Accordingly,  he  wrote  his  review-articles 
and  his  great  "  History  "  on  the  principle  that  few  readers  understood 
any  thing  accurately  ;  that  they  would  be  grateful  to  the  man  who 
took  it  for  granted  that  they  were  ignorant,  —  a  man  who  bent  all  his 
powers  to  the  task  of  making  simple  what  to  them  seemed  obscure,  of 
lucidly  explaining  what  they  imperfectly  apprehended,  and  of  recom- 
mending his  explanation  by  every  rhetorical  contrivance  of  wit,  anec- 
dote, learned  allusion,  and  picturesque  description. 

Still,  it  is  also  to  be  remembered,  that  he  not  only  formed  his  style 
during  his  long  residence  at  the  university,  but  he  had,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-three  or  twenty-four,  adopted  the  general  political  ideas  which 
regulated  his  future  life.  In  1812  he  wrote  a  college-essay  on  the 
"Conduct  and  Character  of  William  the  Third,"  the  leading  opinions 
of  which  are  almost  identical  with  those  he  advanced  in  his  "  History ; " 
and,  in  many  cases,  the  same  similarity  is  observable  in  the  style  of 
expressing  them. 

Indeed,  if  we  look  at  Macaulay's  school  and  college  career  as  a 
whole,  we  shall  find  abundant  reasons  why,  so  soon  after  leaving  Cam- 
bridge, he  should  so  rapidly  have  risen  to  literary  and  political 
eminence. 


THOMAS    CARLYLE. 


By  JAMES    PARTON. 

THE  time  was,  when  I  would  gladly  have  walked  from  New  York 
to  Albany  to  see  Thomas  Carlyle  pass  by.  I  would  not  have 
stipulated  for  a  word  with  him.  What  should  I,  a  green,  ignorant 
youth,  presume  to  say  to  such  a  man  ?  No  :  to  see  him  pass,  and  bow 
in  homage  to  him,  and  watch  him  till  he  had  gone  out  of  sight,  had 
been  enough  for  me  in  those  days  of  the  Carlyle  enthusiasm. 

A  peculiar  experience  had  prepared  me  to  understand  and  to  wel- 
come this  great  poet,  now  asleep  with  his  kindred  in  old  Scotland. 
At  the  age  of  twenty  years,  I  went  to  England,  and  spent  a  year  in 
that  country.  It  was  during  one  of  those  periods  of  commercial  revul- 
sion, to  which  profuse  and  extravagant  people  like  the  English,  who 
live  up  to  the  income  of  prosperous  years,  must  be  forever  liable. 
Never  before  had  I  seen  destitution,  except  as  resulting  from  intem- 
perance or  sudden  calamity ;  and  even  that  had  been  speedily  relieved, 
so  far  as  my  knowledge  of  it  went.  But  now  I  saw  thousands  of  vir- 
tuous and  stalwart  laborers  standing  idle  along  the  roadsides,  their 
families  pallid  from  want,  or  living  as  paupers  in  huge  poorhouses, 
called  Unions. 

It  was  particularly  in  the  agricultural  counties  that  the  distress  was 
most  general  and  most  hopeless.  The  spectacle  was  so  agonizing  to 
one  who  had  passed  his  youth  in  a  land  of  abundance,  and  I  was 
brought  so  near  to  it  by  living  for  several  weeks  at  a  farmhouse  in  one 
of  the  most  fertile  counties  of  England,  that  I  was  often  quite  over- 
whelmed, and  almost  driven  mad,  by  it.  What  made  the  spectacle 
the  more  heart-rending  was  the  excellent  character  of  the  sufferers,  — 
kind,  good  people,  dignified  and  patient,  sprung  from  virtuous  ances- 
tors, abundantly  capable  of  enjoying  and  making  the  most  of  a  lowly 
lot,  provided  it  had  furnished  them  with  the  means  of  subsistence. 

173 


174  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

I  asked  every  one,  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  Why  is  this  ?  "  The 
farmers  said,  "  The  price  of  our  produce  is  so  low  that  we  cannot 
afford  to  employ  labor  as  usual."  The  squire  of  the  parish  had  abated 
a  part  of  the  rents,  and  had  caused  twelve  hundred  days'  work  to  be 
done  in  his  park  that  winter,  merely  that  he  might  give  away  twelve 
hundred  shillings  under  the  guise  of  wages.  There  was  no  lack  of  char- 
ity ;  and  all  agreed  that  the  land  would  abundantly  support  the  whole 
population,  if  the  people  and  the  land  could  only  be  rightly  related. 

There  was  the  land  needing  the  labor :  there  were  the  laborers 
needing  the  land,  and  most  willing  to  work  upon  it.  And  yet,  upon 
both  a  kind  of  enchantment  seemed  to  rest.  The  fields  were  undrained 
and  unploughed  :  the  laborer  stood  in  the  highway,  gaunt,  hungry,  and 
hopeless. 

Here  was  a  problem  indeed  for  a  raw  lad  just  out  of  school,  and  as 
ignorant  of  the  world  as  a  baby.  I  have  never  been  in  my  life  so  dis- 
tressed and  so  puzzled  as  I  was  then.  Being  in  London  some  weeks 
after,  I  saw  an  advertisement  in  the  "Times,"  under  the  head  of  new 
publications,  to  this  effect :  — 

"  This  day.  Past  and  Present.  By  Thomas  Carlyle.  i  vol.  8vo.  Price, 
10s.  6d.     Chapman  and  Hall,  Strand." 

I  had  casually  heard  of  this  Thomas  Carlyle  as  of  a  wise  and  un- 
known man  ;  and,  in  consequence  of  this  vague  impression,  I  made  my 
way,  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  to  the  small  and  dingy  bookstore  of 
Chapman  &  Hall,  paid  my  ten  and  sixpence,  and  brought  away  the 
book.  Sympathetic  readers  can  imagine  my  feelings  when  I  read,  that 
evening,  the  opening  page  of  this  unique  production  :  — 

'•  The  condition  of  England  is  justly  regarded  as  one  of  the  strangest  ever  seen 
in  this  world.  England  is  full  of  wealth,  of  multifarious  produce,  supply  for  human 
want  in  even  kind:  yet  England  is  dying  of  inanition.  With  unabated  bounty  the 
land  of  England  blooms  and  grows, — waving  with  yellow  harvests;  thick-studded 
with  workshops,  industrial  implements,  with  millions  of  workers,  understood  to  be 
the  strongest,  the  cunningest,  and  the  willingest  our  earth  ever  had.  These  men  are 
here  :  the  work  they  have  done,  the  fruit  they  have  realized,  is  here,  abundant,  ex- 
uberant on  every  hand  of  us ;  and,  behold  !  some  baleful  fiat  as  of  enchantment  has 
gone  forth,  saying,  '  Touch  it  not,  ye  workers,  ye  master-workers,  ye  master-idlers. 
.None  of  you  can  touch  it,  no  man  of  you  shall  be  the  better  for  it:  this  is  enchanted 
fruit."' 

These  words  riveted  my  attention,  for  they  gave  expression  to  what 
I  had  been  brooding  over  for  months.     The  whole  book  was  but  an 


THOMAS   CARLYLE.  1 75 

expansion  of  this  first  page.  It  was  a  cry  of  horror,  wrung  from  the 
author  by  the  sight  of  so  much  misery  in  the  midst  of  abundance. 
No  country  had  ever  been  so  rich  as  England  was  then  ;  and  no  coun- 
try perhaps,  in  time  of  peace,  had  ever  contained  such  an  amount  of 
woe  and  despair. 

It  was  objected  that  Carlyle  suggested  no  remedies.  This  was  not 
true  ;  but,  if  it  had  been  true,  such  a  heart-rending  shriek,  calling  the 
attention  of  every  thoughtful  person  to  the  state  of  things,  was  itself 
the  beginning  of  remedy ;  as  a  woman,  coming  upon  the  deck  of  a 
ship  at  midnight,  finding  the  watch  asleep,  and  the  vessel  running 
among  the  breakers,  utters  one  cry  of  alarm,  which  wakes  the  crew, 
and  saves  the  vessel.  From  that  time  to  this,  the  educated  class  of 
Englishmen  have  never  been  quite  so  insensible  to  the  anguish  of  the 
poor,  never  quite  so  disposed  to  venerate  mere  material  success,  as 
they  were  before. 

Much  that  Carlyle  afterward  wrote  was  little  in  harmony  with  the 
humane  and  liberal  spirit  of  this  work.  I  think  he  gradually  lost  his 
humility,  lost  faith  in  man,  lost  hope  and  cheerfulness,  lost  a  part  of 
his  sincerity.  He  secluded  himself  too  much  from  human  society. 
He  undertook  long,  painful,  and  unsuitable  tasks.  He  wore  himself 
out  in  giving  a  careful  distillation  of  the  court-gossip  of  Prussia,  and 
displayed  real  genius  in  delineating  some  portions  of  the  life  of  Frede- 
rick the  Great.  Nevertheless,  all  deductions  made,  there  is  worth  and 
truth  in  the  writings  of  this  man,  which  will  make  them  of  value,  per- 
haps, to  unborn  generations.  We  give  a  few  samples  of  his  epigram- 
matic wisdom  :  — 

"  The  latest  Gospel  in  this  world  is,  Know  thy  work,  and  do  it." 
"  Wheresoever  thou  findest  Disorder,  there  is  thy  eternal  enemy.     Attack  him 
swiftly,  subdue   him ;    make  Order  of   him,  the  subject  not  of  chaos,  but  of  intelli- 
gence, divinity,  and  thee." 

"  The  thistle  that  grows  in  thy  path,  dig  it  out,  that  a  blade  of  useful  grass,  a 
drop  of  nourishing  milk,  may  grow  there  instead." 

A  hundred  sentences  like  these  could  be  selected  from  the  works 
of  this  modern  Jeremiah.  Even  when  he  seems  perverse  and  preju- 
diced, if  we  closely  examine  the  passage,  we  shall  often  find  that  there 
is  a  certain  degree  of  truth  in  it,  after  all.  He  speaks,  for  example, 
with  unmeasured  contempt  of  the  institutions  of  the  United  States. 
Believing  that  nearly  all  men  are  fools,  it  was  quite  natural  for  him  to 
suppose  that  government  founded  upon  the  rule  of  the  majority,  or 
the  consent  of    the  governed,  must  be  a  very  bad  government.      He 


176  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

compares  government  to  a  ship  trying  to  get  round  Cape  Horn  in  a 
stormy  time ;  and  he  says,  very  truly,  that  it  would  be  impossible  to 
navigate  the  ship  successfully,  if  the  captain  were  obliged,  every  time 
he  wished  to  tack,  to  call  a  town-meeting  of  the  crew,  and  take  a  vote 
whether  to  tack  or  not. 

The  illustration  is  irrelevant  and  absurd.  It  was  never  proposed, 
since  the  world  stood,  to  navigate  a  ship,  or  conduct  a  newspaper,  or 
direct  an  administration,  on  the  principle  of  taking  a  vote  upon  every 
detail.  Nevertheless,  the  numerous  passages  in  Carlyle's  works  of 
this  nature  are  not  altogether  destitute  of  sense.  His  name  for  a  dull, 
rich  man  is  Bobus  ;  and  he  asks,  what  kind  of  man  Bobus  is  likely  to 
vote  for,  if  not  some  Bobissimus,  or  some  man  who  is  more  of  a  Bobus 
than  Bobus  himself.  This  is  only  a  Carlylean  way  of  saying,  that  a 
people,  foolish  and  corrupt,  will  be  likely  to  elect  foolish  and  corrupt 
rulers. 

In  conversation  with  Americans,  he  delighted  to  make  boisterous 
fun  of  our  way  of  electing  presidents  by  universal  suffrage.  He  bore 
down  all  opposition  with  his  strong  Scottish  voice,  and  gave  no  heed 
to  any  thing  said  in  opposition  to  him.  Incontrovertible  facts  refute 
him.  We  have  elected  twenty  presidents,  nearly  all  of  whom  were 
worthy  and  capable  gentlemen,  and  some  of  them  were  of  distinguished 
ability  and  merit.  Take  the  whole  twenty,  with  all  their  limits  and 
shortcomings,  we  can  claim  that  they  are  superior  to  any  line  or  dynasty 
of  kings  of  which  history  makes  mention,  whether  it  be  called  Tudor, 
Plantagenet,  Stuart,  Guelph,  Bourbon,  Valois,  or  Hohenzollern. 

Compare  our  twenty  presidents  with  any  twenty  successive  kings  ! 

In  the  "  Reminiscences  "  of  Thomas  Carlyle,  his  antipathy  to  the 
United  States  breaks  out  with  violence.  He  appears  in  them  as  a 
kind  of  Scotch  Dr.  Johnson,  —  a  monster  of  blind  and  ignorant  preju- 
dice ;  and  it  is  a  curious  coincidence,  that  both  of  them  cherished  a 
contempt  for  their  brethren  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  And  well 
they  might ;  for,  if  America  is  right,  Johnson  and  Carlyle  are  wrong. 

In  speaking  of  an  American  lady,  he  described  her  as  the  sister  of 
Commodore  Wilkes,  "  who  boarded  the  '  Trent '  some  years  ago,  and 
almost  involved  us  in  war  with  Yankee-land,  during  that  beautiful 
nigger  agony,  or  civil  war  of  theirs."  To  this  sweet  passage,  the 
editor  of  the  work,  Mr.  J.  A.  Froude,  is  good  enough  to  append  the 
following  note :  — 

"  Some  years  after  these  words  were  written,  Carlyle  read  '  The  Harvard  Memo- 
rial Biographies.'     He  was  greatly  impressed  by  the  account  of   the  gallant  young 


THOMAS   CARLYLE.  177 

men  whose  lives  are  there  described,  and  said  to  me,  '  Perhaps  there  was  more  in 
that  matter,  after  all,  than  I  was  aware  of.' " 

If  the  publication  of  that  note  should  induce  a  considerable  num- 
ber of  persons  to  read  those  memorial  volumes,  the  poison  of  Carlyle's 
contemptuous  perversion  will  be  more  than  neutralized. 


TEA   WITH   CARLYLE. 


ANONYMOUS. 

I  WAS  in  England  in  1875,  and  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  leave 
the  country  without  seeing  Carlyle.  Every  thing  in  the  way  of 
sight-seeing,  subjectively  and  objectively,  had  been  thoroughly  attended 
to,  from  London  Bridge  to  John  o'  Groat's  House,  and  Carlyle  alone 
was  left  out.  There  were  people  on  this  side  of  the  ocean  whose  next 
question,  after  saying,  "  How  are  you  ?  "  would  be,  — 

"  Did  you  see  him  ?  " 

"  Who  ? " 

"Carlyle." 

Happily  it  was  within  my  introductory  limits  ;  for  had  I  not  car- 
ried all  over  Europe  in  my  breast-pocket,  next  my  heart,  a  letter  from 
a  very  near  relative  of  his,  and  a  dear  friend  of  mine  ?  There  was  to 
be  no  tourist's  invasion  of  a  lion's  den,  but  only  something  which  the 
laws  of  etiquette  might  permit. 

And  yet,  why  had  I  been  so  free  in  passing  current  all  other  marks 
of  similar  formalities,  and  nearly  embarked  for  home  without  paying 
note  to  this,  all  the  time,  too,  cherishing  it  so  closely  ? 

Coward  !     Could  it  be  that  I  stood  in  fear  of  a  mortal  man  ? 

I  went  down  to  Chelsea.  Happily  it  was  a  gentle  sort  of  evening, 
—  an  evening  to  make  the  roughest  philosopher  calm  and  yielding  to 
mortal  surroundings.  It  was  not  bright,  —  one  could  hardly  expect  that 
of  England  ;  but  there  was  no  fog,  and  the  air  was  balmy. 

I  strolled  down  Carlyle's  street,  and  touched  his  bell  with  some- 
thing of  the  feeling  as  if  I  were  knocking  at  the  door  of  an  old  Scrip- 
tural prophet,  —  at  the  door  of  Malachi,  of  Joel,  of  Hosea,  or  of  Ezekiel. 

Tea !  The  odor  of  it  blew  in  my  face  as  a  meek-mannered  servant 
opened  the  door.     She  looked  at  me,  bowed  her  head  at  my  inquiry, 

and  looked  then  at  a  door-mat. 

178 


TEA    WITH   CARLYLE.  1 79 

Ah,  yes  !  Wipe  your  feet.  I  did  so.  She  then  bowed  again,  and 
opened  a  door  on  the  right,  or  left,  I  can't  exactly  say  which,  but  am 
quite  sure  it  was  one  or  the  other.  I  entered,  and  remained  for  a 
while  alone.  There  were  books  knee-deep,  papers,  pipes,  pamphlets, 
and  a  very  strong  smell  of  tobacco.  When  it  ceased  to  be  tobacco,  it 
became  tea.     When  not  tea,  tobacco  again. 

But,  hark !  A  door  swung  open,  and  Carlyle  the  Great  enters.  A 
sort  of  shuffle,  a  mutter,  as  if  in  response  to  some  one  in  the  rear,  and 
I  stand  in  the  breathing  presence  of  the  Illustrious  Critic ;  Master  of 
Irony  ;  Minister  Pen-ipotentiary  of  Human  Events  !  Chronicler  and 
Dissecter  !     Distendiary  of  Mortality  Degenerately  and  Generally. 

I  think  I  spoke  first.  But  it  matters  not  what  I  said.  What  did 
he  say,  and  how  did  he  say  it  ? 

In  response  to  my  introduction,  he  replied  in  one  word,  "America  f" 

The  tone  and  style  of  saying  it  was  exactly  as  if  it  were  pronounced, 
A  merry  cur?  I  confess  I,  for  the  first  time,  was  made  sensible  of  this 
rendering  of  America,  and  its  capacity  for  being  made  game  of.  For 
the  moment,  I  wished  that  I  belonged  to  any  thing  but  a  nation  that 
could  be  so  curtly  interpreted. 

Again  he  replied,  "A  merry  cur?"  which  made  me  feel  as  if  the 
new  style  of  intonation  meant  to  say,  a  murrain  on  you.  But,  no  : 
I  was  not  repulsed.  The  apparent  gruffness  seemed  to  smooth  itself 
down  as  he  glanced  through  and  through  me. 

It  was,  after  all,  not  so  much  to  please  myself  that  I  went  to  see 
him.  It  was  for  others  who  admired  him  across  the  seas  ;  and  he 
seemed  to  catch  at  a  ray  of  kindliness  in  my  intention,  and  said 
softly,  — 

"Sit  dooon." 

And  dooon  I  sat. 

A  gleam  of  human  charity  twinkled  in  his  eye,  a  bit  of  large- 
hearted  pleasantry  lighted  up  his  mobile  mouth,  as  I  timidly  suggested, 
Bore?  I,  at  least,  would  myself  save  him  the  trouble  of  saying  it  first, 
and  claim  only  a  generous  acquiescence  on  his  part. 

"Booore?"  he  languidly  drawled  out.  "Nat  so  baaad  as  thaat, 
though  I've  seen  soome  of  youure  booores.  There  was  a  maan  naamed 
—  naamed —  Well,  well,  thaat  I  should  foorget  a  booore's  naame  ! 
I'll  remember  it  yet.  He  was  a  booore  not  to  be  foorgotten.  He  was 
the  '  Prince  of  Amurrycaan  booores  !  '  " 

I  now  turned  the  stream  of  talk  growing  so  painful  to  myself,  as 
best  I  could,  and    succeeded.      Shortly  after,  Mrs.   Carlyle  made  her 


180  TEA    WITH  CARLYLE. 

appearance.  Tea  was  announced,  the  lamps  sent  up  a  cheery  light, 
and  we  were  seated  about  the  tea-table. 

To  take  tea  with  T.  Carlyle  was  literally  to  take  tea.  It  was  the 
primum  et  solum  mobile  of  the  table.  It  was  tea  et  prcetcrca  nihil.  It 
was  discussed  tea.  Its  flavor  was  dwelt  upon.  Its  bouquet  analyzed. 
It  was  a  solemn  libation,  as  if  offered  to  the  gods. 

No  questions  were  idly  put  of  what  you  took  with  it.  It  was 
poured  black  from  the  urn,  and  a  separate  miniature  sugar-basin  and 
cream-jug  was  at  the  option  of  every  plate.  It  would  seem  to  be 
almost  profanation  to  assume  that  viands  were  mingled  with  such 
celestial  drink  —  and  they  were  not. 

For  the  benefit  of  the  too  curious,  let  me  say  there  was  besides  on 
the  simple  table,  bread,  —  very  thinly  sliced,  —  thin  as  a  wafer,  and 
spread  with  butter.  There  was  also  a  huge  loaf,  with  a  sharp-looking 
knife  beside  it,  for  those  who  preferred  an  independent  cutting. 

Then  there  was  jam  of  some  sort, — a  very  infinitesimal  quantity 
on  a  rather  large  silver  plate. 

Then  there  was  —  and  herein,  Carlyle,  have  you  been  libelled.  It 
has  been  told  in  Gath,  that  he  took  plum-cake  with  tea.  Americans 
have  declared  him  to  be  a  plum-cake  eater,  —  perhaps  the  greedy  boy, 
grown  to  manhood,  whom  tradition  tells  us  ate  in  secret  his  plum-cake. 
What  we  Americans  call  plum-cake  is  a  solid,  slab-sided,  dark  com- 
pound ;  every  pore  filled  with  fatty  plums ;  mucilaginous,  heteroge- 
neous ;  an  amalgamate  product  of  wheat-flour,  eggs,  spice,  butter,  gritty 
with  raisins. 

There  was  no  raison  d'etre  for  any  such  mixture  in  Carlyle's  culi- 
nary vocabulary.  The  cake  that  he  ate  was  nothing  less  than  bun, 
though  something  more  than  the  American  bun.  It  was  white,  almost 
foamy-looking,  like  a  heap  of  cotton-wool,  or  an  embrowned  cloud 
served  on  a  china  dish.  It  was  light  as  air,  compared  to  the  ordinary 
plum-cake. 

This  light,  cool,  well-ripened  bun-food,  dotted  here  and  there  with 
a  currant,  was  the  sort  of  plum-cake  that  Carlyle  dipped  in  his  tea. 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  see  him  eat  this  cake  with  his  tea.  It  would 
naturally  seem  to  be  the  least  interesting  thing  to  see  a  great  man  do, 
—  to  eat.  But  it  was  not  eating.  It  was  nothing  that  gave  suggestion 
or  hint  of  appetite.     It  was  certainly  most  peculiar. 

At  times,  Carlyle,  whose  cup  was  a  cup  of  honor,  being  of  a  larger 
size,  of  a  different  color  and  pattern,  than  any  of  the  others,  would 
lift  it  to  his  mouth  as  if  to  sip,  but  take  no  taste.#     He  would  hold  it 


TEA    WITH  CARLYLE. 


181 


there  as  if  he  alone  had  a  faculty  of  imbibing  the  liquid  without 
resort  to  the  vesicular  action  of  any  ordinary  methods.  Again,  he 
would  put  the  cup  to  his  lips,  but  only  by  sips  did  the  six  or  seven  cups 
of  tea  become  finished. 

The  conversation  flowed  in  a  regular  channel  of  tea.     The  refresh- 
ment of  it  was  discussed,  the  qualities  of  it,  the  manner  of  using  it. 

I  should  say  that  Carlyle  took  it 
in  every  manner  that  evening,  —  with 
cream,  without ;  with  sugar,  with- 
out, —  as  if  constantly  experimenting 
with  it. 

Madam  made  some  pretty,  playful 
allusions  about  his  fashion  of  taking 
it,  and  said  that  Dash,  who  often  took 
tea  with  them,  said  it  was  his  chief 
entertainment  to   see   her  husband's 


lea  with  Carlyle. 


sippings  ;  at  which  point  I  lightly  added,  "  Dulce  est  te-sipere  in  loco  ;  " 
and  Carlyle's  head  went  back  a  little,  and  he  smiled,  and  uttered  an 
audible  ah  !  ah  !  in  fashion  peculiar  to  himself. 

And  the  bun-food  ?  How  was  it  ?  Did  Carlyle  eat  it  ?  I  think  I 
hear  a  voice  inquiring.  Hardly  what  would  be  called,  in  the  vulgate, 
eating.      He  dallied  with  it,  as  one  might  pick  a  rose  to  pieces.      For 


1 82  TEA    WITH   CARLYLE. 

instance,  he  placed  the  bun  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand  :  then  he  placed 
it  in  the  other  hand,  and  looked  at  it,  as  if  it  were  some  dainty  thing 
picked  up  by  chance,  curiously. 

Then  he  lifted  it  lightly  in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  as  if  weighing  it. 
Then  it  was  torn  open,  and  was  placed  outside  his  plate,  the  edges 
resting  on  the  edge  of  the  plate.  Another  and  another  were  taken, 
repeating  the  same  process  until  his  plate  was  set  in  a  semicircle  of 
buns.  At  intervals  a  few  flaky  crumbs  passed  his  lips,  and  once  a 
piece  was  dropped  into  his  teacup.  It  floated  on  the  surface  ;  and  the 
philosopher  watched  it,  while  he  talked,  as  it  dissolved  into  the  infini- 
tesimals. 

You  will  think,  perhaps,  that  these  are  rather  small  crumbs  to 
gather  at  a  great  man's  table  ;  but  crumbs  are  of  interest  to  those  who 
adore  their  heroes. 

I  have  forborne  to  repeat  the  conversation  that  passed  during  this 
crumb  repast,  because  no  topics  of  any  importance  were  touched  upon. 
I  could  plainly  see  that  he  desired  it  should  be  so ;  and,  in  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle's  bonhomie,  I  discerned  rather  a  desire  to  avoid  any  talk  but  that 
of  a  passing,  easy,  light  character. 

There  was  very  little  serving  at  the  table  of  any  sort.  As  the  cups 
disappeared,  the  maid  renewed  the  tea.  Mrs.  Carlyle's  chief  duty 
seemed  to  be  that  there  should  be  no  drought  in  the  tea-urn.  In  short, 
it  was  an  amusement,  a  piece  de  theatre,  to  see  the  tea-performance, 
and  one  which  I  always  revert  to  in  my  imagination  with  a  smile  and 
a  feeling  of  pleasure. 

But,  when  we  left  the  table,  Carlyle's  pile  of  buns  was  but  slightly 
reduced.  I  trust  that  the  beggars  at  Carlyle's  gate  benefited  by  this 
abundance.  And  I  hope  that  I  shall  hear  no  more  that  Carlyle  ate 
plum-cake,  when  he  only  tore  plum-buns  to  pieces. 


CARLYLE:   HIS  WORK  AND  HIS  WIFE. 


By   LOUISE   CHANDLER   MOULTON. 

THERE  is  a  story  about  a  walk  that  Thomas  Carlyle  took  once 
with  a  young  friend.  It  was  a  night  full  of  stars,  —  one  of  those 
wide,  luminous  nights  that  seem  to  open  into  heaven.  The  solemnity 
of  the  scene  penetrated  the  great,  sad  soul  of  Carlyle,  and  he  grew 
more  and  more  silent.  At  last  he  stood  upon  his  own  door-step, 
stopped  to  say  good-night,  and  then  turned  round  again,  with,  — 

"  If  you  have  any  thing  to  do,  do  it  !  " 

This  was  the  gospel  of  Carlyle's  life,  —  too  much  his  gospel,  as  we 
shall  see  hereafter,  but  a  lesson  which  cannot  be  too  often  repeated  to 
most  of  us. 

In  later  life  Carlyle  was  difficult  of  access,  and  few  new-comers 
were  admitted  to  his  presence.  An  exception  was  made,  however,  in 
favor  of  one  of  the  sincerest  of  his  worshippers,  —  a  young  Eng- 
lishman. This  young  man  had  grown  up  with  Carlyle  for  his  prophet. 
He  had  learned  from  Carlyle  to  live  nobly,  —  to  hate  shams,  to  despise 
snobbishness,  to  honor  purity  and  self-control.  He  fain  would  thank 
his  great  master  before  the  end  of  that  long  life  came. 

He  wrote  a  letter  which  I  would  give  something  to  see.  I  can 
fancy  how  a  whole,  honest,  grateful  heart  overflowed  in  it.  It  touched 
Carlyle,  who  had  been  getting  deaf,  of  late,  to  voices  from  the  outside 
world;  and  he  wrote,  "Come." 

At  the  appointed  day  and  hour,  my  young  friend  presented  himself. 
He  was  shown  in.  A  table  was  covered  with  loose  leaves  of  manu- 
script ;  and,  among  other  papers  scattered  on  the  floor,  the  old  sage 
was  groping. 

His  tall  figure  was  bent :  his  face,  framed  in  a  wiry  gray  beard,  was 
thin  and  rugged.  He  had  on  a  black-velvet  skull-cap,  and  his  eyes 
looked  out  from  under  his  cavernous  brows  with  a  fierce  brightness 

1S3 


1 84  CARLYLE:    HIS    WORK  AND  HIS    WIFE. 

undimmed  by  time.  He  did  not  rise  when  my  friend  entered,  but 
pursued  his  search. 

"See  if  you  can  find  '43,'  will  you?"  was  his  salutation.  Down  on 
his  knees  before  his  hero  went  the  young  man,  —  it  was  what  he  would 
have  longed  to  do  in  any  case,  — and  soon  he  had  found  "43."  Carlyle 
triumphantly  restored  it  to  its  place  among  the  loose  leaves  on  the 
table,  and  then  began  one  of  those  memorable  conversations  which 
can  never  be  forgotten. 

This  young  visitor  to  Carlyle  was  one  of  the  moving  spirits  of  a 
club  in  London  which  is  called  the  Carlyle  Club.  The  yearly  member- 
ship of  this  club  is  only  two  dollars  and  a  half,  — just  enough  to  supply 
lights,  fire,  and  a  convenient  place  of  meeting.  Some  twenty  or  more 
very  earnest  young  men  belong  to  it,  and  they  all  consider  Carlyle  their 
master  and  guide  in  the  pursuit  of  truth. 

Their  first  meeting  after  his  death  was  like  the  coming  together  of 
children  to  mourn  for  a  father.  I  doubt  if  Carlyle  was  so  sincerely 
lamented  anywhere  as  by  these  earnest  young  souls,  who  had  turned 
from  the  temptations  of  the  world,  to  try  to  follow  in  the  path  of  toil 
and  struggle  to  which  their  master  beckoned  them.  I  wonder  if  they 
would  have  loved  the  old  man  so  fondly  if  they  had  lived  with  him, 
day  by  day,  in  that  house  at  Chelsea. 

For  Carlyle  was  a  hard  man.  He  came  of  hard  stock.  He  was  so 
accustomed  to  put  his  work  before  his  own  pleasure,  that  he  thought 
it  ought  to  come  also  before  the  pleasure  of  any  one  else. 

I  hardly  know,  in  all  literature,  a  more  pathetic  book  than  the  vol- 
ume of  "  Reminiscences,"  published  since  the  old  man's  death.  They 
begin  with  his  memories  of  that  strong  old  Scotchman,  James  Carlyle, 
his  father.  Thomas  was  the  eldest  child  of  his  parents,  having  been 
born  in  1795.  His  family  designed  him  for  a  minister  of  the  Church 
of  Scotland,  and  sent  him  to  Edinburgh  to  pursue  his  theological 
studies. 

He  found  theology  unsuited  to  his  taste,  but  it  was  not  without  a 
terrible  struggle  that  he  renounced  the  profession  chosen  for  him  by 
his  parents.  He  passed  three  days  in  his  closet,  scarcely  eating  or 
drinking.  When  he  came  forth  from  it,  he  had  found  out  what  he  had 
to  do ;  and,  from  that  time,  he  began  to  "do  it."  But  he  did  it  at  too 
great  cost,  both  to  himself  and  to  others. 

At  thirty-one  he  married  Jane  Welch,  the  beloved  wife  whose 
memory  is  embalmed  in  the  most  touching  portion  of  the  "  Reminis- 
cences."    She   was    twenty-five    then,  —  a   beautiful    creature,   full   of 


CARLYLE:    HIS    WORK  AND  HIS    WIFE. 


I85 


spirit  and  brightness,  and  with  a  strong  tincture  of  innocent,  girlish 

coquetry  in  her  nature. 

From  the  first,  she  seems  to  have  believed  in  Carlyle,  —  to  have 

adored  his  genius,  and  felt  a 
sublime  certainty  of  his  future 
success.  Two  years  after  they 
were  married,  he  took  her  to 
live  in  Craigenputtoch,  fifteen 
miles  from  any  town,  in  the 
wildest  part  of  Dumfriesshire ; 


and    here  they  re- 
mained  until   1834. 
What  those    six 
years  of  Craigenput- 
toch must  have  been 
to    this    bright,    sweet- 
natured   woman,   we    can 
dimly  divine  as  we  read  the 
brief  story  of  her  life  which 
Carlyle  gives  us.   She  was  al- 
ways cheerful,  he  says.    Ah, 
but  that  was  when  his  eyes 
were  on  her 

hours  in  which  he  was  buried 
in    his  work,  and    she   was 


■5«?~WSSf$. 


keeping  interruption  away 
from  him,  more  carefully 
than  a  mother  does  from  her 
sleeping  baby,  — what  of  those  hours  ?    Miss  Jewsbury  says  of  them,  — 

"  It  was  a  much  greater  trial  than  it  sounds  at  first ;  for  Mr.  Carlyle  was  engrossed 
in  his  work,  and  had  to  give  himself  up  to  it  entirely.     It  was  his  life  that  his  work 


1 86  CARLYLE:    HIS    WORK  AND  HIS    WIFE. 

required ;  and  she  gave  her  life,  too,  which  alone  made  such  life  possible  for  him. 
Hers  was  no  holiday  task  of  pleasant  companionship.  She  had  to  live  beside  him 
in  silence,  that  the  people  in  the  world  might  profit  by  his  full  strength,  and  receive 
his  message." 

But  the  solitary  confinement  told  on  her  health,  only  he  did  not 
know  it.  During  those  six  years,  he  wrote  his  noble  essays  on  German 
literature  which  have  affected  all  subsequent  criticism.  The  essay  on 
"  Burns,"  which  is  worth  all  that  every  one  else  has  ever  said  about 
Burns  put  together,  belongs  to  this  period,  as  also  does  "  Sartor 
Resartus." 

In  1834  he  removed  to  that  part  of  London  called  Chelsea;  and 
there  he  lived,  henceforth,  until  he  died.  At  one  time  he  got  the  idea 
that  his  Chelsea  house  was  too  noisy.  He  mounted  a  superb  black 
horse,  —  the  gift  of  a  friend,  —  and  with  three  maps  of  Great  Britain, 
and  two  maps  of  the  world,  in  his  pockets,  he  sallied  forth  to  explore 
the  surrounding  country  in  search  of  a  new  home. 

After  a  week  of  exploration,  he  came  back,  and  had  the  walls  of 
his  study  padded  to  make  them  proof  against  noise.  He  had  resolved 
to  live  and  die  in  Chelsea. 

In  this  house,  much  the  same  strange  life  went  on  as  among  the 
moors  of  Scotland.  More  people  came  and  went,  to  be  sure ;  but 
still,  for  most  of  the  time,  it  was  Carlyle  forgetting  every  thing  in  his 
work,  and  his  wife  forgetting  every  thing  else,  herself  included,  for 
his  sake.  Just  a  few  months  before  her  death,  she  went  away  without 
him  in  pursuit  of  health  ;  and  he  staid  behind,  working.  No  wonder 
he  cried  out  so  passionately,  after  she  was  gone,  — 

"Ah  me!  she  never  knew  fully,  nor  could  I  show  her,  in  my  heavy-laden,  mis- 
erable life,  how  much  I  had  at  all  times  regarded,  loved,  and  admired  her.  No  telling 
of  her  now.  Five  minutes  more  of  your  dear  company  in  this  world.  Oh  that  I 
had  you  yet,  for  but  five  minutes,  to  tell  you  all !  This  is  often  my  thought  since 
April  21." 

She  died  in  1866;  and  he  buried  her  in  remote  Dumfriesshire, 
where  he  lies  now,  at  last,  beside  her.  On  her  part  of  their  common 
tombstone  he  had  inscribed,  — 

"  For  forty  years  she  unweariedly  forwarded  her  husband,  as  none  other  could,  in 
all  of  worthy  that  he  did  or  attempted." 

No  wonder  that  the  world  seemed  to  him  "no  better  than  an  empty 
dog-kennel "  when  she  had  gone  out  of  it.  By  some  strange  fatality, 
she  died,  at  last,  in  the  brougham  he  so  bitterly  reproached  himself  for 
having  delayed  too  long  to  provide  for  her. 


CARLYLE:    HIS    WORK  AND  HIS    WIFE.  187 

Driving  alone  in  the  park,  another  brougham  upset  her  little  dog, 
which  lay  on  its  back,  and  screamed.  Feeble  as  she  was,  she  pulled 
the  check-string,  and  got  out  to  set  the  little  creature  right,  and  took 
it  into  the  carriage  with  her.  When  the  carriage-door  was  opened, 
half  an  hour  afterwards,  she  had  died  there,  as  for  so  much  of  her  life 
she  had  lived,  —  quietly,  uncomplainingly,  and  alone. 

Year  by  year,  since  then,  the  old  man  went  to  stand  alone  by  his 
darling's  distant  grave.  On  his  last  visit  his  faithful  niece  went  with 
him,  but  she  staid  outside  the  gates  ;  and  the  sexton  said,  that,  when 
the  bent  old  man  came  out,  he  tottered  so  he  feared  that  he  might  fall. 
In  1 88 1  he  went  for  the  last  time,  —  borne  silently  to  lie  down  beside 
her  in  the  silence. 


VICTOR   HUGO   AT   HOME. 


By  RICHARD  LESCLIDE, 

HIS   SECRETARY. 
I. 

FOR  many  years  Victor  Hugo  has  been  in  the  habit  of  spending 
his  summers  at  his  house  on  the  Island  of  Guernsey.  But  in 
1882  he  remained  in  Paris,  contenting  himself  with  occasional  trips 
into  the  suburbs. 

He  did  not  give  up  the  journey  because  he  felt  too  old  to  travel, 
although  he  is  now  over  eighty ;  for  still,  in  pleasant  and  in  stormy 
weather,  he  takes  vigorous  outdoor  exercise  every  day.  It  is  a  very 
easy  journey  from  his  house  in  Paris  to  the  flowery  island  where  he 
has  his  summer  home.  But,  with  the  Hugo  household,  a  voyage  to 
Guernsey  is  no  small  affair.  For,  when  the  author  of  "  Les  Chati- 
ments "  visits  the  rocks  and  cliffs  to  which  his  poem  is  so  closely 
allied,  he  takes  with  him  his  daughter,  his  grandchildren,  his  intimate 
friends,  and  his  servants. 

There  were  several  reasons  why  the  usual  trip  was  abandoned  that 
year.  For  one  thing,  the  poet's  latest  work,  "  Torquemada,"  which 
was  published  only  in  May,  created  an  extraordinary  sensation  ;  and, 
for  some  time,  Victor  Hugo's  salon  was  turned  into  an  arena,  where 
the  philosophy  of  the  work  was  passionately  discussed.  And  then,  he 
seldom  travels  without  his  manuscripts.  They  constitute  one  of  the 
greatest  interests  of  his  life  ;  and  almost  every  day  he  looks  them  over, 
and  works  on  them.  They  are  enclosed  in  an  iron  case,  which  is  fire- 
proof, and  is  set  into  the  wall  beside  his  bed,  within  reach  of  his  hand. 
They  have  seldom  left  their  place  of  security,  —  indeed,  only  when 
the  ministry  of  May  16  caused  the  Republic  to  fear  a  new  coup  d'etat, 
and  during  the  journeys  to  Hauteville  House. 
188 


VICTOR   HUGO  AT  HOME. 


189 


The  poet's  existence  seems  almost  to  depend  on  that  of  his  unpub- 
lished works,  which  were  written,  for  the  most  part,  while  he  was  in 
exile.  I  have  travelled  with  these  precious  manuscripts,  over  which 
we  watched  with  a  solicitude  almost  equal  to  that  which  inspires  the 

poet.  And  Guernsey  then  received 
them  like  eaglets,  born  in  her  tree- 
tops,  which  were 
now  returning  to 
their  early  home. 
We  made  one 
voyage  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1878.    Our 


party,  after  pass- 
ing Jersey,  saw 
the    rocky   hills 
of  Guernsey  ris- 
ing gently  from  the  sea,  dis- 
playing   their    caverns,    their 
peaks,  and  their  fresh  verdure. 
We  passed  Fort  George,  which 
is   built    on   the   point    of   the 
island  looking  towards  France. 

The  fields  lay  spread  out  like  an  amphitheatre  before  our  eyes,  and 
then  we  entered  the  port  of  St.  Pierre.  Near  the  landing  is  Haute- 
ville  House,  the  home  of  Victor  Hugo. 

Within  a  little  court,  where  two   stunted   trees    are  standing  like 
stern  sentinels,  rises  the  plain,  two-story  front  of  the  building.     As- 


190  VICTOR  HUGO  AT  HOME. 

cending  a  few  steps,  we  reach  the  vestibule,  from  which  a  hall  runs 
through  the  house,  and  opens  at  the  other  end  on  a  garden,  full  of 
luxuriant  plants  and  trees,  and  overlooking  the  sea.  The  house  is  one 
of  his  poems  ;  and  his  desires  and  fancies  have  dictated  the  decora- 
tions, which,  although  they  belong  to  no  particular  school  or  period, 
blend  in  a  marvellous  harmony. 

Hauteville  House  is  one  of  the  strangest  dwellings  in  the  world. 
A  house  of  plain,  comfortable  appearance  on  the  street  side,  it  spreads 
out  toward  the  sea  in  galleries  full  of  the  rarest  curiosities.  Genius 
has  left  its  marks  here,  even  in  the  details  of  the  decorations  ;  and  the 
result  is  a  truly  fairy-like  scene.  As  soon  as  the  door  closes  behind 
us,  the  entrance-hall  of  Hauteville  House  —  the  walls  of  which  are 
enriched  with  oaken  wainscotings,  and  small  oval  windows  —  is  filled 
with  dim,  subdued  light.  The  eye  falls  upon  porcelains  from  Japan 
and  China,  Sevres  and  Saxony. 

Passing  through  this  hall,  we  come  to  the  cheerful  dining-room, 
where  the  poet's  friends  gather  twice  a  day ;  and  the  amusing  plaques, 
in  old  faience,  with  which  the  walls  are  hung,  are  often  the  subjects 
of  the  daily  conversation.  But  the  sombreness  of  the  house  is  not 
dissipated  by  these  bright  ornaments.  On  the  walls  may  be  seen  the 
poet's  initial,  H.,  in  relief ;  frescoed  mottoes  in  Gothic  letters  ;  and 
ancient  paintings,  rising  to  the  very  cornices  and  the  carved  beams  of 
the  ceiling.  Antique  chairs  of  carved  wood  are  placed  about  the  room, 
and  one  —  an  old  arm-chair  which  is  an  heirloom  in  the  family  —  is 
surrounded  by  an  iron  chain. 

Large  English  windows  give  a  view  of  the  depths  of  the  garden, 
where  are  growing  aloes,  the  eucalyptus,  a  gigantic  laurel,  and  a  thou- 
sand varieties  of  fuchsias,  of  which  Guernsey  seems  to  be  the  native 
soil.  The  fuchsias  grow  there  all  the  year  round,  and  spring  up  in 
abundance  along  the  roadside,  and  at  every  breath  of  air  ring  their 
many-colored  bells.  You  have  only  to  stretch  out  your  hand  to  gather 
a  whole  bouquet  of  them.  Delightful  breakfasts  are  enjoyed  in  this 
house,  and  the  dinners  are  still  more  pleasant.  It  gives  one  an  appe- 
tite, only  to  see  the  cheerful  room. 

The  lower  floor  is  used  only  at  meal-times.  The  guests  are  re- 
ceived on  the  floor  above,  which  is  reached  by  a  stairway  so  softly 
padded  and  carpeted,  that,  if  one  should  trip,  he  would  suffer  nothing 
more  serious  than  a  too  sudden  descent  to  the  lower  hall.  Reaching 
the  floor  above,  you  come  to  a  region  of  wonders.  The  red  room  and 
the  blue  room  form  a  sort  of  gallery,  whose  walls  are  hung  with  tapes- 


VICTOR  HUGO  A 7   HOME.  19 1 

tries  tinted  in  gold  and  silver  and  pearl,  in  imitation  of  the  apart- 
ments which  Christine,  the  Queen  of  Sweden,  occupied  at  Fontainebleau 
in  the  last  century. 

The  light,  refracted  from  the  surfaces  of  the  Venetian  pearls,  is 
constantly  changing  the  appearance  of  the  painted  and  carved  monsters 
and  plants  which  are  crawling  and  climbing  over  this  brilliant  back- 
ground. 

Before  the  great  fireplace,  at  the  back  of  the  rooms,  four  gilded 
Moors — which  formerly  adorned  the  "Bucentaur,"  the  state  barge  of 
Venice  —  stand,  bearing  a  canopy  and  torches.  The  poet  has  honored 
these  guardians  of  his  hearth  with  a  couplet  :  — 

"  You  may  see  in  my  house,  as  among  the  old  Romans, 
Spectres  of  gold  bearing  lamps  in  their  hands." 

And,  in  truth,  these  "  spectres  "  do  have  a  weird  appearance  in  the 
twilight ;  and  the  children  never  like  to  be  alone  with  them.  Perhaps 
this  may  be  the  fault  of  a  young  poet,  who,  dreaming  in  the  moon- 
light, exaggerated  the  weird  appearance  of  Hauteville  House,  and  who 
undertook  to  recount  the  mysteries.  He  did  not  believe  very  much  in 
these  things  himself,  but  that  did  not  hinder  his  making  new  discov- 
eries every  day. 

The  North  Tower,  according  to  him,  was  filled  with  strange  noises 
and  low  groans  —  when  the  wind  was  blowing.  And  he  asserted  that 
a  great  painting  of  the  Spanish  school,  representing  purgatory,  became 
animated  when  he  looked  at  it  with  some  attention.  More  than,  that, 
as  the  room  was  very  dark,  one  could  just  distinguish  the  still  shadows 
which  were  apparently  gathered  in  low  conversation  before  the  sad 
picture.  Finally,  he  asserted,  that  in  the  salon  des  tapisseries,  where 
there  are  ancient  tapestries  bearing  representations  of  rural  concerts, 
music  may  be  heard  by  one  who  listens  attentively,  especially  if  he  is 
a  little  sleepy. 

The  "master"  thought  our  dreamer  had  better  suspend  his  re- 
searches, and  perhaps  he  was  a  little  bold  in  wishing  to  go  too  deeply 
into  matters.  If  any  care  to  pursue  this  fancy,  we  refer  them  to  the 
"  maison  visioimee,"  and  to  the  delightful  chapter  which  Victor  Hugo 
has  devoted  to  it  in  the  "Toilers  of  the  Sea." 

If  we  again  mount  the  stairs,  we  come  to  the  third  story,  where 
there  opens  before  us  a  gallery  of  a  richness  more  delicate  than  that 
of  the  apartments  below.  Here  is  a  bed  in  which  a  certain  great  army 
officer  slept  his  last  sleep.     Religious  banners,  decorated  with  exqui- 


192  VICTOR  HUGO  A 7   HOME. 

site  embroideries,  hang  from  the  walls.  In  this  room  there  are  pieces 
of  furniture  and  panels  made  by  the  poet  himself.  He  has  secured 
wonderful  decorative  effects  by  shaping  blocks  of  wood  with  red-hot 
irons,  and  coloring  the  hollows  with  brilliant  tints. 

Going  still  one  flight  higher,  we  come  to  the  "look-out,"  where  one 
is  very  apt  to  be  lost.  It  is  a  tangled  maze  of  little  rooms  and  pas- 
sages and  steps,  through  which  a  skilful  guide  will  lead  you  to  the 
working-room  of  the  poet,  —  a  glass-sided  room,  into  which  the  light 
pours  from  all  directions. 

Let  us  now  leave  this  labyrinth,  so  strangely  placed  on  the  roof  of 
the  building,  from  which  one  can  overlook  the  sea  as  far  as  the  islands 
of  Sark  and  Herm.  On  the  garden  side,  Hauteville  House  is  joined 
by  a  building  like  a  greenhouse,  whose  transparent  sides  are  shaded 
with  thick  hangings  which  run,  like  drapery  curtains,  on  long  rods. 
Within  is  a  salon,  hung  with  rich  tapestries,  and  furnished  with  divans 
of  Oriental  pattern.  At  the  rear  of  this  salon,  where  the  noises  of  the 
street  cannot  penetrate,  there  is  a  room  set  apart  for  the  preservation 
of  family  souvenirs,  —  busts,  portraits,  caskets  unopened  for  twenty 
years  or  more.  This  room  is  seldom  entered  by  the  family  ;  and  this 
circumstance  has  given  it  the  chill,  inhospitable  name  of  the  "  North 
Tower." 

But  I  must  say  one  word  about  a  little  house  farther  down  the 
same  street,  called  "  Hauteville  Fairyland,"  and  belonging  also  to  the 
poet.  It  is  one  of  his  chcfs-d'ceuvre,  and  well  illustrates  his  wonderful 
originality.  His  artistic  ability  is  shown  in  the  shutters,  the  panels, 
and  all  the  woodwork,  upon  which  impossible  but  graceful  plants  are 
growing,  and  fearful  monsters  are  creeping  and  crawling. 

Outside,  upon  the  lawn,  the  initials  V.  H.,  formed  by  masses  of 
brilliant  flowers,  stand  out  in  striking  relief  against  a  background 
of  green. 

At  Hauteville  House,  Victor  Hugo  exercises  the  rites  of  hospitality 
in  a  profuse  manner  ;  and,  during  his  absence  from  his  island,  the  house 
is  kept  open  by  his  sister-in-law, — a  pleasant,  kindly  lady,  who  shows 
to  all  who  call,  the  dwelling  of  the  poet. 

I  speak  of  Guernsey  as  "his"  island;  and  the  people  will  them- 
selves tell  you  that  their  island  belongs  to  Victor  Hugo,  their  leading 
citizen. 


VICTOR  HUGO  AT  HOME.  193 


II. 

The  varied  genius  of  Victor  Hugo  has  produced  works  of  fiction, 
volumes  of  poems,  public  addresses,  pictures,  and  statues.  And,  be- 
sides all  that  he  has  shown  to  the  world,  he  possesses  other  proofs  of 
his  genius  and  wisdom ;  for  the  portfolios  and  note-books  which  he 
has  always  carried  about  with  him  are  filled  with  his  reflections  and 
observations. 

It  has  always  been  deemed  a  high  privilege  to  see  great  men  in 
the  retirement  of  their  homes  ;  and  it  would  be  pleasing  to  hope  that 
some  day  these  personal  notes  might  be  put  in  shape,  and  published. 
But  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  probably  they  will  never  be  issued  to  the 
world.  They  are  full  of  fugitive  impressions,  unpublished  verses,  and 
of  plans,  of  letters  and  sketches,  which  were  evidently  never  destined 
for  publication.  No  one  but  Victor  Hugo  could  arrange  them  for  pub- 
lication, and  he  is  too  much  occupied  by  more  important  work  to  under- 
take the  task. 

But  do  not  think  that  he  would  fear  to  have  the  world  read  his 
most  private  thoughts.  Quite  the  contrary.  He  could  live  at  his  ease 
in  the  glass  house  told  of  by  Montaigne.  His  dwelling  is  open  to  all 
who  will  enter,  and  he  dispenses  the  rites  of  hospitality  after  the  fash- 
ion of  the  old  school.  Far  from  shunning  the  gaze  of  those  who  seek 
to  look  into  his  private  life,  he  throws  the  door  wide  open.  During 
his  stay  in  Guernsey  in  1878,  a  friend  gained  permission  to  introduce 
a  gentleman  who  desired  to  see  the  poet  and  his  home.  The  stranger 
was  entertained  for  a  whole  day.  Some  time  after,  there  appeared,  in 
a  French  paper,  a  not  very  kindly  article,  whose  source  it  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  discover.  The  stranger  was  a  reporter,  who  had  come  to  La 
MancJie  for  material  for  a  sensational  article. 

But  although  neither  his  private  secretary  nor  the  poet's  friends 
are  permitted  to  read  the  note-books  of  which  I  have  spoken,  yet  we 
know  much  of  what  is  in  them  from  his  own  lips  ;  for  Victor  Hugo 
often  tells  the  secrets  of  his  life  during  the  quiet  hoars  of  evening 
conversation  with  his  friends.  His  reputation  as  a  story-teller  was 
established  years  ago.  And  we  can  study  his  genius  from  this  point 
of  view  in  his  "  Letters  on  the  Rhine,"  a  marvellous  collection  of 
anecdotes  and  impressions. 

Often,  when  a  little  circle  of  dear  friends  gather  about  him,  he  will 
tell  of  by-gone  days  ;  and  the  faithful  friend,  who  has  never  left  his 


194  VICTOR  HUGO  AT  HOME. 

side  for  half  a  century,  comes  to  his  aid,  now  and  then,  in  recalling 
events  and  names.  Several  times  those  who  have  chanced  to  hear 
these  after-dinner  talks  have  written  them,  and  published  them  in  little 
books,  which  have  been  at  once  snatched  up  by  the  reading-public. 
But  these  incomplete  reports  are  seldom  accurate.  Mingled  with  the 
stories  and  sayings  which  the  writer  has  heard  from  the  poet's  own 
mouth,  are  often  found  anecdotes  which  have  come  to  him  indirectly, 
and  have  been  much  distorted  on  their  way.  But  the  poet  cares  too 
little  for  such  matters  to  be  seriously  disturbed. 

I  have  said  too  much  about  anecdotes  and  stories  not  to  tell  you 
one  or  two.  One  of  them  I  heard  for  the  first  time  only  last  week, 
and  I  believe  it  has  never  been  in  print.  It  is  a  simple  little  story, 
which  might  have  for  a  name,  "  How  Queen  Victoria,  when  aban- 
doned by  her  people,  was  received  by  Victor  Hugo  on  the  Island  of 
Guernsey." 

One  day  Queen  Victoria,  whom  the  people  of  Guernsey  acknowl- 
edge as  their  protector,  by  the  title  of  Grand  Duchess  of  Normandy, 
wanted  to  show  these  subjects  some  marks  of  royal  favor.  The  statue 
of  the  good  Prince  Consort,  Albert,  had  been  erected  at  the  Port  St. 
Pierre  in  Guernsey,  much  to  the  gratification  of  the  population ;  and, 
with  the  desire  to  still  further  gain  their  good  will,  the  Queen  deter- 
mined to  visit  the  island  herself.  The  people  were  thrown  into  a  state 
of  commotion  by  the  unexpected  news.  Fort  George  was  put  in  order  ; 
and  all  arrangements  were  made  to  give  pomp  to  the  royal  reception, 
which  was  to  take  place  on  Saturday.  At  the  appointed  hour,  the 
Queen  left  London. 

Unfortunately,  the  sea  would  not  aid  in  carrying  out  the  official 
programme.  The  steamer  which  bore  the  Queen  became,  as  soon  as 
it  entered  La  Manche,  the  plaything  of  a  terrible  tempest.  It  was  out 
of  the  question  to  try  to  land  on  Saturday  ;  and  the  ship  had  to  put 
out  to  sea,  to  avoid  being  cast  upon  the  rocks  which  make  the  Norman 
archipelago  one  of  the  most  dangerous  seas.  Thus  passed  one  whole 
day.  Then  the  sea  grew  quiet,  the  wind  subsided  ;  and,  the  next  morn- 
ing, the  royal  vessel  could  be  seen,  apparently  preparing  to  enter  the 
port. 

Here  was  a  great  scandal !  It  was  Sunday :  and  on  Sunday,  at 
Guernsey,  the  people  never  come  in  or  go  out ;  they  read  the  Bible  in 
their  families,  and  sing  hymns  in  the  church.  There  are,  in  Guernsey, 
three  hundred  chapels  for  thirty  thousand  people. 

There  is  no  reason  to  doubt  the  orthodoxy  of  the  Queen,  who,  in 


VICTOR  HUGO  AT  HOME. 


!95 


truth,  is  considered  very  strict  in  her  views  at  home.  But  now,  worn 
out  by  her  stormy  passage,  the  royal  passenger  decided  that  she  would 
be  glad  to  get  on  shore.  The  ship  doubled  Chateau-Cornet,  and 
steamed  into  the  port  St.  Pierre,  saluted  by  the  cannon  of  Fort  George. 


Victor  Hugo  and  his  Grandchildren. 

The  rest  of  the  island  was  buried  in  silence.  Instead  of  the  acclama- 
tions she  had  looked  for,  and  the  crowd  which  ordinarily  pressed  about 
her  wherever  she  went,  the  illustrious  visitor  found  herself  surrounded 
by  silence  and  solitude.  It  seemed  as  if  they  were  landing  on  a  des- 
ert island.  Where,  then,  were  the  loyal  subjects  of  the  Duchess  of 
Normandy  ? 


196  VICTOR  HUGO  AT  HOME. 

They  were  at  church  !  The  word  had  gone  forth  ;  and  the  whole 
population,  animated  with  holy  zeal,  had  determined  to  give  a  bitter 
lesson  to  the  impiety  which  profaned  the  day  of  the  Lord.  The 
preachers  in  their  pulpits  compared  the  Queen  to  Jezebel,  and  hurled 
scriptural  texts  at  her  head.  The  people  of  Guernsey  turned  their 
backs  on  the  Queen  of  England. 

A  solitary  gentleman,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  a  dreamy 
look  in  his  eyes,  was  wandering  on  the  deserted  shore.  He  saw  a 
woman  come  from  the  steamer,  step  on  the  beach,  and  approach  him. 
He  bowed.  Her  Gracious  Majesty  responded  with  a  smile.  "  Who  is 
this  gentleman  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Madame,  it  is  Victor  Hugo." 

I  am  sure  I  do  not  know  what  she  said,  and  so  I  shall  not  try  to 
tell  you.  You  see,  I  have  the  most  scrupulous  regard  for  historic 
truth.  I  believe  the  poet  had  never  met  the  Queen  before,  but  he  had 
some  relations  with  her  government ;  for  to  England  his  house  owes, 
by  feudal  tenure,  the  droit  de  poidage,  or  yearly  payment  of  a  tax, 
consisting  of  two  hens  ! 

Although  a  stranger  and  a  Frenchman  was  the  first  to  greet  the 
Queen,  it  was  not  long,  however,  before  the  inhabitants,  satisfied  with 
the  lesson  they  had  given  her,  received  her  with  heartfelt  though  quiet 
hospitality. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  of  my  recollections  of  the  life  at 
Hauteville  House,  is  that  of  a  grand  representation  of  tableaux,  given 
by  the  children  of  the  family  on  the  evening  of  the  23d  of  October, 
1878.  It  was  an  unusually  gloomy  autumn,  and  the  brightest  days 
had  their  hours  of  rain.  The  dulness  became  almost  unbearable  ;  and, 
when  some  one  suggested  tableaux,  we  were  glad  to  take  up  the  idea, 
and  carry  it  out.  The  master  —  for  so  the  poet's  friends  call  him  — 
received  an  invitation  to  be  present  at  the  entertainment ;  and,  when 
he  accepted,  it  seemed  as  if  the  undertaking  was  already  assured  of 
success.  It  was  decided  that  the  representation  should  be  given  the 
very  next  day,  without  fail. 

The  only  trouble  was,  that  the  dialogues  and  scenes  had  not  yet 
been  written,  nor  the  scenery  made,  nor  the  costumes  prepared. 
Neither  was  there  any  stage  or  curtain.  No  matter.  If  we  allow 
ourselves  to  be  discouraged  by  mere  trifles,  we  shall  never  succeed  in 
any  thing.  The  manager  took  for  heroes,  George  and  Jeanne,  the 
grandchildren  of  the  poet.  The  scenes  were  arranged  with  special 
reference  to  bringing  out  the  grace   and  brightness  of   the  children. 


VICTOR  HUGO  AT  HOME.  197 

And  the  "  author  "  never  flinched  at  using  a  sofa  to  represent  a  three- 
decked  vessel,  or  taking  a  footstool  for  the  vessel's  long-boat.  Almost 
all  the  family  took  part  in  it ;  and  the  indolent  or  bashful  ones,  with 
some  of  the  neighbors,  made  up  a  fine  audience. 

The  poet  seemed  much  moved  by  the  misfortunes  and  calamities 
endured  by  his  grandchildren.  At  the  close  of  every  scene,  little 
Jeanne,  the  heroine,  was  arrested,  and  cast  into  a  gloomy  prison,  or 
what  represented  a  gloomy  prison.  Her  persecutors  piled  arm-chairs, 
stools,  and  tables  about  her ;  but  she  slipped  through  them  all  like  an 
eel.  At  last,  when  she  had  escaped  for  the  tenth  time,  one  of  the 
little  pursuers  seized  her ;  and  seeing  in  the  audience  a  certain  elderly 
gentleman  of  honorable  appearance,  who  seemed  to  merit  his  confi- 
dence, he  carried  his  victim  to  him,  and  cried,  — 

"  I  intrust  the  prisoner  to  you  until  the  next  scene.  You  must  be 
responsible  for  her,  because  I  must  judge  her  and  condemn  her  before 
long.     If  she  gets  away  again,  how  shall  we  ever  get  through  ?  " 

This  bold  and  unexpected  appeal  had  a  wonderful  success  in  win- 
ning applause  from  the  audience ;  and  the  little  girl  was  kept  safe  in 
the  arms  of  her  grandfather,  who  was  thus  made  to  take  part  in  the 
exhibition. 

How  much  we  grow  in  a  few  years  !  George  is  now  a  wise  collegian, 
who  can  talk  Latin  ;  Jeanne  is  now  Mademoiselle  Jeanne ;  and  Victor 
Hugo  (the  fashion  must  run  in  the  family)  has  written  "Torquemada," 
and  is  still  growing  ! 

III. 

Victor  Hugo  will  be  remembered,  not  only  as  an  author,  but  as  a 
man.  His  works,  indeed,  reflect  the  author :  they  all,  too,  seem  to 
have  cast  their  reflection  on  him  ;  and  it  is  this  which  inspires  the 
affectionate  curiosity  which  pursues  him,  even  into  the  privacy  of  his 
home,  and  the  popularity  which  was  so  signally  shown  by  the  festival 
of  the  26th  of  February,  1881. 

Seven  hundred  thousand  people,  moved  by  a  spontaneous  impulse, 
defiled  in  a  dense  crowd,  from  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  till  five 
in  the  afternoon,  before  the  poet's  house  on  that  day,  and  greeted  him 
with  their  acclamations.  This  ovation  took  place  in  a  country  where 
meetings  and  gatherings  are  forbidden,  since  such  assemblages  easily 
degenerate  there  into  revolutions.  The  managers  of  it,  however,  — 
men,  for  the  most  part,  devoted  to  literature  and  the  arts, — secured 


198  VICTOR  HUGO  AT  HOME. 

the  indulgence  of  the  police ;  and  the  procession  was  allowed  to  pass 
freely. 

A  poet  said  to  me,  as  he  watched  this  immense  crowd  swaying  to 
and  fro,  "  Such  a  sight  has  never  been  seen  before,  and  will  never  be 
seen  again." 

The  popularity  of  the  poet,  indeed,  does  not  decrease,  but  the 
demonstrations  of  his  admirers  take  a  different  form.  So  it  is  that 
this  year  Paris  publishes  a  "  Libre  d'Or,"  or  "  Golden  Book,"  to  which 
the  most  famous  artists  have  contributed,  and  which,  when  issued,  will 
be  one  of  the  most  curious  monuments  which  that  country  has  ever 
raised  to  the  glory  of  a  great  man. 

Next  year  a  statue  of  the  poet  will  be  erected  on  one  of  the  public 
squares  of  Paris ;  and  the  place  where  it  shall  stand  is  being  discussed. 
Some  wish  it  to  be  raised  not  far  from  his  dwelling,  near  the  artesian 
well  at  Passy  :  others  think  that  its  proper  site  is  in  front  of  the 
Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame,  which  recalls  his  dttut  as  a  novelist,  and 
one  of  his  most  brilliant  successes. 

Victor  Hugo  represents,  not  only  the  reformer  who  founded  the 
new  literary  school,  and  delivered  the  French  language  from  the  tram- 
mels of  classicism,  but  also  the  tribune,  who  has  proclaimed  and  cham- 
pioned every  liberty,  often  at  the  peril  of  his  life. 

Born  with  the  century,  he  grew  up  with  it,  gradually  freeing  him- 
self from  the  prejudices  of  a  priestly  and  monarchical  education.  This 
trait  of  moral  growth,  and  of  advancing  toward  the  light,  has  especially 
identified  him  with  his  age,  so  that  already  it  is  written  of  as  "  the 
century  of  Victor  Hugo." 

He  has  filled  one  era  with  the  conquests  of  his  thought :  nothing 
has  held  ground  against  him,  not  even  the  empire.  His  complex 
labors,  in  which  his  existence  is  absolutely  bound  up,  make  him  the 
representative  of  the  right,  the  support  of  the  unfortunate,  the  consoler 
of  women,  and  the  friend  of  children.  When  this  is  considered,  one 
is  no  longer  surprised  at  the  current  of  ideas  which  envelops  France, 
and  nearly  the  entire  world,  and  which  draws  towards  this  powerful 
mind  those  who  love  the  ideal,  and  those  who  are  oppressed  by  tyranny. 

It  is  thus  explained  why  the  poet  receives  a  larger  number  of  let- 
ters, perhaps,  than  any  man  living.  Letters  are  constantly  coming  to 
him  from  every  part  of  the  globe.  Nor  do  these  always  relate  to  im- 
portant matters.  The  inconveniences  of  fame  consist,  above  all,  in 
little  things.  The  mania  of  owners  of  albums  and  autograph-collect- 
ors is  insatiable.     Requests  for  autographs  come  in  such  numbers  to 


VICTOR  HUGO  Al   HOME. 


199 


Victor  Hugo,  that  it  is  a  sheer  impossibility  for  him  to  respond  to  them. 
You  would  hardly  guess  how  many  young  girls  get  up  every  morning 
with  this  idea  in  their  heads :  "  Suppose  I  write  to  Victor  Hugo  for  his 
autograph  ! "  And  a  thousand  dainty,  perfumed  little  letters  arrive, 
one  after  another,  —  some  of  them  charming,  others  bold  and  indis- 
creet ;  for  not  only  do  they  ask  for  a  signature,  but  a  thought,  a  phrase, 
or  unpublished  bits  of  prose  and  poetry. 

Newly  betrothed  people  write  to  Victor  Hugo  for  a  wedding-song, 
the  parents  of  new-born  infants  beg  for  a  benediction,  and  the  bereaved 
beg  for  an  epitaph  to  be  placed  on  a  tomb  about  to  be  erected.  Each 
mail  brings  its  quota  of  letters,  either  grave  or  gay.  Cities  plead  for 
inscriptions  for  their  monuments,  political  meetings  request  a  speech, 
a  toast,  or  a  word  of  sympathy.  The  most  remarkable  thing  about 
this  correspondence  which  fairly  submerges  the  poet,  is,  that  he  never 
refuses.  He  cannot,  however,  give  much  time  to  his  correspondence ; 
for  his  labors  absorb  his  life.  This  is  not  sufficiently  considered  by 
the  writers  who  submit  to  him  their  manuscripts,  and  the  young  authors 
who  send  him  their  essays,  with  a  request  for  his  criticism  and  advice 
on  them.     Even  Victor  Hugo's  good  nature  is  powerless  to  satisfy  these. 

In  his  laborious  existence,  the  evening  alone  brings  to  the  poet  a 
few  hours  of  liberty.  At  dusk,  after  a  short  stroll  in  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne,  which  is  near  his  house,  Victor  Hugo  becomes  master  of 
himself,  and  welcomes  his  friends,  nearly  all  foreigners  of  distinction. 
Above  all,  those  who  are  men  of  letters  make  it  a  point  of  honor  to 
call  on  the  poet  on  reaching  Paris.  They  wish  to  see  and  hear  the 
man  in  whom  the  genius  of  an  entire  nation  seems  centred. 

His  powers  of  elevated,  noble,  eloquent  conversation,  on  every 
subject  which  interests  or  excites  him,  are  well  known.  It  is  as  if  he 
were  giving  his  hearers  an  unpublished  chapter  of  his  works,  of  which 
they  have  the  first  and  exclusive  edition.  These  hours  of  distraction 
and  relaxation  are  dear  to  the  poet,  who  each  day  receives  a  special 
company  of  invited  guests.  He  has  a  day  set  apart  for  receiving  sena- 
tors, another  for  journalists,  another  for  men  of  learning,  and  another 
for  people  of  society  and  the  world.  Often  these  various  elements 
mingle,  and  are  dissolved  in  each  other ;  for  there  is  no  absolute  rule 
about  the  matter,  and  often  the  poet's  assemblies  are  formed  spon- 
taneously. 

Jeanne  and  George,  his  grandchildren,  pass  among  the  groups  of 
visitors,  and  enliven  the  scene  with  their  light,  childish  gayety. 

There  are  few  famous  travellers  who  have  not  been  seen  in  Victor 


200  VICTOR  HUGO  AT  HOME. 

Hugo's  drawing-room.  Crowned  heads  themselves  are  sometimes 
represented  there.  The  Emperor  of  Brazil  once  visited  the  poet.  A 
well-meaning  diplomatist  tried  to  regulate  the  etiquette  of  the  call  ; 
but  he  ran  against  this  delicate  point,  that,  though  people  go  to  see 
Victor  Hugo,  Victor  Hugo  does  not  go  to  see  anybody.  The  diplo- 
matist found  his  task  too  much  for  him.  At  the  end  of  his  fruitless 
negotiations,  Victor  Hugo  cut  them  short,  by  saying,  — 

"  Please  tell  the  emperor  that  we  dine  here  at  precisely  eight 
o'clock  ;  and  that,  on  any  day  when  he  would  like  to  come  and  see  me, 
another  plate  will  be  gladly  added  to  those  set  for  our  guests." 

The  poet  had  well-nigh  forgotten  these  words,  when,  about  a  week 
after,  just  as  the  family  were  about  to  sit  down  at  table,  a  stranger, 
with  a  frank,  open  face,  habited  in  a  long  frock-coat,  rather  timidly 
presented  himself. 

"  I  have  some  need  of  being  encouraged,"  said  he  to  the  master  of 
the  house,  who  came  forward,  and  offered  the  visitor  his  hand. 

He  was  at  once  recognized,  and  the  republicans  who  were  present 
hastened  to  make  a  place  for  this  cordial  royal  personage.  The  con- 
versation turned  upon  a  thousand  topics,  and  the  poet  and  the  emperor 
were  equally  brilliant.  The  latter  avowed  that  he  devoted  the  sums 
voted  by  his  Parliament  for  adorning  his  palaces  to  the  erection  of 
schools.  And  so  interesting  was  the  conversation,  that  the  party, 
instead  of  breaking  up  as  usual  at  midnight,  lingered  until  two  in  the 
morning. 

All  this  happened  in  the  third  story  of  a  house  in  the  Rue  Clichy, 
which  the  poet  left  in  1878,  after  his  long  sojourn  at  Guernsey.  On 
returning  to  France,  he  took  up  his  residence  in  a  house  on  the  avenue 
which  now  bears  his  name.  This  is  in  the  Passy  quarter,  on  one  of 
the  highest  points  of  ground  in  Paris.  His  house  is  No.  50.  Attached 
to  it  is  a  large  garden,  full  of  flowers  and  verdure.  The  windows  of 
his  study  look  out  upon  this  garden,  shaded  by  tall  trees  which  sway 
in  the  breeze. 

The  poet  rarely  goes  into  the  garden  ;  but,  as  he  stands  erect  at  his 
desk, — for  he  never  writes  sitting  down,  —  he  looks  out  at  the  sky, 
and  rests  his  eyes  upon  the  gravelled  walks  where  George  and  Jeanne 
arc  playing  with  their  companions  and  their  well-bred  domestic  pets. 
Among  these  latter  are  two  poodle  dogs,  whose  grave  demeanor  betrays 
their  great  age  ;  and  a  very  handsome,  lazy  cat,  which  answers  to  the 
name  of  "  Gavroche,"  this  being  borrowed  from  the  name  of  the  street- 
boy  in  Victor  Hugo's  "  Les  Miserables." 


VICTOR  HUGO  AT  HOME. 


20 1 


Gavroche  lives  on  a  footing  of  armed  neutrality  with  three  white 
ducks,  which  walk  up  and  down  in  Indian  file,  and  which  suddenly 
face  about  if  the  cat  approaches  them  too  closely.  The  cat  then  re- 
tires, and  has  recourse  to  the  parrots,  which  chirp  in  the  groves,  and 


THE  STUDY-' 


rouse  his  hunting  propen- 
sities. His  ears  prick  up, 
his  fur  bristles,  and  he  crouches 
flat  on  the  ground.  But  his  An- 
gora pride  does  not  permit  him 
to  accomplish  his  end  by  leaps 
and  bounds.  He  advances  toward 
the  birds  with  long  and  stealthy 
step.  The  flock  takes  its  flight,  at  which  Gavroche  seems  surprised. 
Let  us  not  leave  the  garden  without  admiring  a  beautiful  laurel- 
tree,  which  dates  from  the  festival  of  the  26th  of  February,  1881.  The 
"  Society  of  the  Men  of  Letters  "  made  a  gift  to  Victor  Hugo,  on  that 
occasion,  of  a  vigorous  and  superb  laurel  ten  feet  high.  This  had  been 
submerged  for  twenty-four  hours  in  a  galvanic  bath.     Under  the  action 


202  VICTOR  HUGO  AT  HOME. 

of  the  battery,  the  laurel  became  gilded  from  top  to  bottom  with  leaves, 
twigs,  and  flowers.  The  earth  which  had  nourished  it,  and  the  vase 
which  had  enclosed  it,  were  all  gilded.  It  seemed  to  have  come  from 
the  River  Pactolus.  It  was,  for  a  while,  thought  to  be  dead ;  but  it 
appears  that  gold  revivifies.  After  several  months,  the  sap  made  the 
gilding  crack,  so  that  it  burst,  and  peeled  off,  and  gave  place  to  green 
and  vigorous  sprouts.  The  tree  is  to-day  full  of  life  and  health.  It 
is  directly  opposite  this  usually  silent  landscape,  where  the  golden  tree 
is  growing,  that  the  poet  writes,  covering  large  sheets  of  Dutch  paper 
with  his  sculptural  penmanship. 

Let  it  be  remarked  that  Victor  Hugo  has  had  several  styles  of 
handwriting, — a  fact  which  will  later  on  give  rise  to  interesting  dis- 
cussions on  chirography.  Before  his  exile,  in  185 1,  his  manuscripts 
were  in  a  very  small  hand.  The  Alexandrine  verses  flowed  in  slender 
columns,  and  could  only  be  read  with  difficulty  with  the  naked  eye. 
At  the  time  he  wrote  "  La  Legende  des  Siecles,"  and  especially  the 
second  part  of  it,  his  handwriting  assumed  a  magnificent  amplitude. 
His  "copy"  had  a  ferocious  and  tempestuous  look.  Erasures  furrowed 
it  like  lightning,  and  flashed  in  violent  strokes. 

These  tempests  issued  from  quill-pens,  matches,  or  reeds  ;  for  the 
master  writes  with  almost  any  thing  except  metallic  pens,  which  he 
abhors.  This  carelessness  as  to  the  instrument  with  which  he  fixes 
his  thought  is  so  great,  that  Victor  Hugo  uses  indifferently  the  nib  or 
the  back  of  his  pen  without  soiling  his  hands,  of  which  he  takes  much 
care. 

From  his  study,  which  is  also  his  bedroom,  the  poet  descends  into 
his  drawing-room  by  a  thickly  carpeted  staircase.  The  drawing-rooms, 
which  join  the  dining-room,  open  upon  a  long  gallery,  which  lets  into 
the  garden.  It  is  here  that  the  master  receives  his  guests  of  every 
rank,  and  every  shade  of  opinion.  His  house  is  a  neutral  ground, 
where  every  sincere  opinion  may  be  freely  expressed.  Victor  Hugo 
presides  over  the  conversation  with  a  toleration  from  which  he  seldom 
departs,  even  in  presence  of  political  and  literary  heresies  ;  nor  does 
he  ever  reprove  any,  except  those  whom  he  most  loves.  The  liberality 
with  which  all  are  invited  imposes  an  arduous  task  upon  Madame 
Drouet,  the  poet's  faithful  friend,  whose  difficult  duty  it  is  to  assort 
the  guests  of  each  dinner,  so  as  to  put  people  of  similar  tastes  next 
to  each  other  at  the  table.  There  is  nothing  which  is  not  thus  done 
with  an  exquisite  tact  and  a  perfect  good  grace. 

Dinner  is  rarely  prolonged  later  than  nine  o'clock.     The  company 


VICTOR  HUGO  AT  HOME.  203 

then  returns  to  the  drawing-rooms,  which  are  furnished  very  much  as 
were  those  occupied  by  the  poet  in  the  Rue  Clichy.  Red  hangings, 
with  brilliant  yellow  bands ;  mirrors  in  carved  frames  ;  gilding,  and  a 
chandelier  of  Venetian  crystal ;  a  Louis  XV.  clock,  which  is  regulated 
every  day,  and  is  always  a  quarter  of  an  hour  too  fast ;  two  bronzes ; 
a  Japanese  elephant  armed  for  battle  ;  a  copy  of  Michael  Angelo's 
"  Moses  ; "  and  chairs  in  Aubusson  point,  give  the  rooms  an  aspect  at 
once  elegant  and  serious. 


VICTOR    HUGO. 


By  JAMES   PARTON. 

IT  was  in  1822  that  a  little  volume  of  poems,  entitled  "Odes  et 
Ballades,"  by  Victor  Hugo,  appeared  in  Paris.  It  excited  a  tem- 
pest of  controversy,  which  caused  it  to  sell  with  a  rapidity  that  was 
extremely  convenient  to  the  young  poet ;  for  he  was  deeply  in  love  with 
a  young  lady  who  had  been  his  playmate  in  childhood. 

His  volume  was  published  in  June.  In  October  the  poet  was  mar- 
ried. In  December  he  gave  the  public  a  second  edition,  with  a  firm 
but  modest  preface,  in  which  he  defended  himself  and  his  work  against 
attacks.  This  edition  was  followed  by  other  editions,  with  new  and 
longer  prefaces  ;  and,  from  that  time  to  this,  these  "  Odes  and  Ballads  " 
have  been  reprinted  every  two  or  three  years.  The  edition  now 
lying  before  me  is  dated  1875,  and  there  has  been  another  published 
since. 

It  is  not  usual  for  poetry  to  excite  angry  controversy.  Why,  then, 
should  this  volume  have  so  inflamed  the  passions  of  men  ?  To  answer 
that  question,  I  must  tell  you  who  this  poet  was,  and  how  he  had 
lived.  No  poet  of  modern  times  has  had  so  romantic  a  history.  His 
father  was  Joseph  Leopold  Sigisbert  Hugo,  one  of  Napoleon's  most 
active  and  intelligent  officers.  While  serving  in  La  Vendee,  he  fell 
in  love  with,  and  married,  an  armorer's  daughter,  who  was  a  devoted 
royalist ;  her  name,  Sophie  Tr^buchet.  Three  sons  were  the  fruit  of 
this  marriage,  all  of  whom  were  distinguished  in  literature ;  although 
Victor  is  the  only  one  whose  fame  has  reached  foreign  countries. 

In  this  poet,  then,  was  mingled  the  blood  and  spirit  of  both  the 
parties  which  then  divided  France.  Gen.  Hugo  had  been  first  a  re- 
publican, and  then  a  soldier  of  the  empire.  His  wife  never  ceased  to 
cherish  in  her  heart  the  warmest  devotion  to  the  old  line  of  kings. 

The  poet  was  born,  as  he  tells  us  in  one  of  his  early  poems,  at  the 
204 


VICTOR  HUGO.  205 

ancient  city  of  Besancon.  Like  many  other  men  who  have  enjoyed 
a  vigorous  old  age,  he  was  born  extremely  feeble,  —  an  infant,  he  says, 
without  color,  without  voice,  given  up  by  every  one  but  his  mother. 
No  one  expected  him  to  live  through  the  day ;  and  nothing  saved  him, 
except  what  he  calls  the  "  obstinacy  "  of  his  mother,  who  lavished  upon 
this  fragile  child  a  double  portion  of  a  mother's  tenderness. 

When  he  was  six  weeks  old,  his  father  was  ordered  to  the  island 
of  Elba.  During  the  remainder  of  Napoleon's  reign,  the  mother  and 
her  boys  had  no  permanent  resting-place.  Part  of  the  time,  the  father 
held  a  command  in  Naples  under  King  Joseph.  When  the  latter 
changed  the  crown  of  Naples  for  that  of  Spain,  Gen.  Hugo  left  Italy 
also  ;  and  his  family  passed  two  years  in  Paris.  It  was  at  this  time  that 
the  boy  saw  Napoleon,  an  event  which  makes  the  subject  of  one  of  his 
most  pleasing  poems. 

He  was  then  seven  years  old,  and  he  merely  saw  the  emperor  pass. 
He  stole  away  from  his  mother,  in  order  to  get  a  look  at  the  man  of 
whom  he  had  heard  so  much  ;  and  he  tells  us  what  it  was  in  the  em- 
peror that  struck  his  boyish  mind.  It  was  not,  he  says,  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  people,  nor  the  splendor  of  his  escort,  nor  even  the  battered  old 
hat  that  he  wore,  "more  beautiful  than  a  diadem,"  nor  even  the  old 
grenadiers  of  his  guard,  nor  the  ten  vassal  princes  who  followed  him. 
It  was  none  of  these  things  that  moved  the  boy. 

"What  struck  me,"  he  says,  "and  remained  graven  upon  my  mem- 
ory, was  to  see,  amid  all  those  pomps  and  splendors,  this  Sovereign 
Man  passing  on  silent  and  grave,  like  a  god  of  bronze." 

In  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  when  his  father  came  home,  Victor 
asked  him  why  Napoleon  looked  so.  The  general  made  no  reply.  But 
the  next  day  the  child  returned  to  the  charge,  and  besought  an  expla- 
nation. The  father  gave  a  long  discourse,  comparing  Napoleon  to  the 
still  depths  of  the  ocean,  to  the  motionless  roots  of  the  mighty  oak,  to 
the  silent,  fruitful  earth.     In  his  mind,  all  was  formed. 

The  boy  saw  the  emperor  pass  a  second  time,  wearing  always  the 
same  severe,  cold  expression  of  countenance,  as  of  a  man  who  had 
undertaken  a  task  far  transcending  human  ability, — the  government 
of  an  empire  by  his  own  unaided  wisdom. 

The  storm  of  war  called  the  father  far  away,  leaving  this  wonderful 
boy  for  two  years  to  the  influence  of  his  mother  in  Paris.  They  lived, 
during  this  period,  in  an  old  convent,  in  a  quiet  part  of  Paris  ;  and 
there  he  imbibed  his  mother's  love  for  the  old  king  and  the  old  ways. 
He  tells  us  all  about  this  part  of  his  life  in  an  enchanting  poem,  which 


206  VICTOR  HUGO. 

I  wish  I  could  worthily  translate ;  but  I  cannot.  No  one  could,  unless 
he  were  a  poet  little  inferior  to  Victor  Hugo  himself. 

"  I  had,"  he  says,  "  in  my  blond  infancy,  alas !  too  brief,  three 
masters,  —  a  garden,  an  old  priest,  and  my  mother.  The  garden  was 
large,  well  shaded,  mysterious,  closed  in  by  high  walls  from  curious 
eyes,  sown  with  flowers,  full  of  humming  noises.  The  priest,  nour- 
ished upon  Tacitus  and  Homer,  was  a  gentle  and  good  old  man.  My 
mother  —  was  my  mother!     So  I  grew  up  under  this  triple  ray." 

And  then  he  goes  on  to  tell  how,  at  last,  his  mother  began  to  think 
it  was  time  for  the  boy  to  go  to  school ;  and  how  a  learned  doctor,  with 
narrow  forehead  and  solemn  countenance,  came  to  talk  to  his  mother 
about  it,  and  was  very  positive  that  the  boy  ought  not  to  waste  his  time 
any  longer  under  the  tutelage  of  those  three.  When  the  doctor  was 
gone,  the  poor  mother  was  sad  and  thoughtful ;  but,  at  last,  the  garden 
carried  the  day.  The  poet  represents  the  garden  arguing  the  case 
with  the  mother,  and  advising  her  to  leave  her  child  to  grow  up  under 
its  influence.     The  mother  yielded,  and  the  child  remained. 

Doubtless  the  garden  had  the  best  of  the  argument ;  for  there  was 
every  thing  in  the  old  convent,  and  the  grounds  adjacent,  which  could 
nourish  a  Victor  Hugo  ten  years  of  age. 

But  one  day,  when  he  and  his  brothers  were  in  the  garret  of  the 
convent,  they  saw  upon  the  top  of  a  cupboard  a  huge  black  book,  far 
above  their  reach.  They  managed  to  climb  up  in  some  way,  and  get 
it  down.  It  proved  to  be  a  large  old  Bible,  full  of  pictures ;  and,  as 
they  opened  its  leaves,  they  knew,  from  the  odor  of  incense  which 
came  from  them,  that  the  book  had  formerly  been  used  in  the  services 
of  the  chapel.  It  was  not  common  in  French  families  for  the  chil- 
dren to  have  access  to  a  Bible,  and  to  these  three  boys  the  book  was 
a  treasure  all  new. 

"From  the  first  word,"  the  poet  relates,  "it  appeared  to  us  so 
lovely,  that,  forgetting  to  play,  we  three  gathered  about  it  on  our 
knees,  and  set  ourselves  to  read.  We  read  all  the  morning  about 
Joseph,  Ruth,  and  Boaz,  the  Good  Samaritan ;  and,  more  and  more 
charmed,  we  read  it  again  in  the  evening." 

Oh,  yes !  The  old  garden  was  in  the  right.  The  boy  was  richly 
nourished,  until  the  father  summoned  them  away  to  join  him  in  Spain, 
where  he  held  an  important  command  under  the  same  King  Joseph ; 
and  there  they  remained  until  the  fall  of  Napoleon  drew  them  all  back 
to  Paris  again. 

A  great  calamity  now  fell  upon  this  household.     Gen.   Hugo,  like 


VICTOR  HUGO. 


207 


most  of  the  old  soldiers  of  the  empire,  adhered  to  the  dethroned  and 
exiled  emperor  ;   while  his  Vendean  wife  was  more  warmly  attached 


Victor  Hugo. 


than  ever  to  the  restored  Bourbons.     This  difference  ended  at  last  in 
their  separation. 

The  father,  designing  to  make  soldiers  of  his  boys,  placed  them  at 
a  great  and  famous  school  in   Paris,  and  assumed  the  entire  direction 


208  VICTOR  HUGO. 

of  their  lives.  Victor,  however,  showed  such  a  decided  preference  for 
literary  life,  that  his  father  at  length  ceased  to  oppose  his  will ;  and 
the  lad  gave  himself  wholly  up  to  poetry.  It  is  a  custom  for  the 
French  Academy  to  offer  occasionally  a  prize  for  the  best  poem  on  a 
given  subject.  The  subject  proposed  for  1817  was  "  The  Advantages 
of  Study."     Victor  Hugo  was  then  fifteen  years  of  age. 

He  wrote  a  poem  for  the  prize,  which  would  probably  have  been  suc- 
cessful but  for  the  last  line,  wherein  the  poet  said  that  he  was  "scarcely 
fifteen."  The  poem  was  so  remarkable,  that  the  committee  thought 
that  this  line  could  not  possibly  be  true ;  and  they  regarded  it  as  an 
"ill-timed  mystification."  Hence,  they  awarded  the  prize  to  another 
poem,  and  accorded  this  one  only  an  honorable  mention.  It  was  some- 
thing more  than  mentioned,  however ;  for  the  committee  quoted  some 
lines  of  it,  and  said,  — 

"  If,  indeed,  the  author  is  so  young  as  he  says,  the  academy  must 
give  its  encouragement  to  the  young  poet  who  wrote  these  verses." 

Thus,  every  thing  urged  him  towards  the  path  he  was  to  follow 
through  life.  As  he  approached  manhood,  he  imbibed  more  of  his 
mother's  devotion  to  the  royal  family,  and  to  the  system  they  repre- 
sented. His  first  volume  of  poems,  therefore,  the  "  Odes  and  Ballads  " 
above  mentioned,  gave  eloquent  and  moving  expression  to  these  senti- 
ments. It  recalled  all  the  glories  of  the  ancient  monarchy,  gratified 
most  keenly  the  court  and  the  world  of  fashion,  and  stirred  the  wrath 
of  the  old  republicans,  the  old  soldiers,  and  the  old  unbelievers. 

To  give  the  reader  an  idea  of  the  resolute  manner  in  which  he 
placed  himself  in  opposition  to  the  undercurrents  of  feeling  and 
thought,  it  would  be  necessary  to  give  many  passages  from  this  bold, 
tender,  and  powerful  work.  Take  only  this  passage  from  one  of  the 
prefaces,  where  he  replies  to  those  who  had  censured  his  departure 
from  old  models  :  — 

"The  poet  ought  to  have  but  one  model,  —  nature;  only  one  guide,  —  truth.  Of 
all  the  books  which  circulate  among  men,  only  two  ought  to  be  studied  by  him, — 
Homer  and  the  Bible.  In  them  we  find  the  whole  of  creation  considered  under  its 
twofold  aspect,  —  in  Homer,  by  the  genius  of  man;  in  the  Bible,  by  the  Spirit  of 
God." 

The  little  book,  as  I  have  said,  succeeded  beyond  all  his  hopes. 
He  married  the  girl  of  his  heart ;  and  in  the  nick  of  time,  when  he 
was  beginning  to  feel  the  inconveniences  of  keeping  house  without  an 
income,  the  benevolent  old  king,  Louis  XVIII.,  gave  him  a  small  pen 
sion.     This,  however,  was  not  for  his  poetry  alone.     An  old  friend  of 


VICTOR  HUGO.  209 

Victor  Hugo,  charged  with  conspiracy  against  the  government,  was 
hiding  in  Paris  against  the  police.  The  poet  wrote  to  the  mother  of 
the  accused,  offering  him  an  asylum  in  his  own  house  ;  "for,"  said  he, 
"  I  am  too  much  of  a  royalist  for  any  one  to  think  of  coming  to  look 
for  him  in  a  room  of  mine." 

This  letter  was  opened  at  the  post-office,  and  shown  to  the  king. 
When  he  had  read  it,  he  said,  — 

"  I  know  this  young  man.  In  this  matter  he  conducts  himself  hon- 
orably.    I  grant  him  the  next  vacant  pension." 

The  vacancy  occurred  none  too  soon ;  for,  about  this  time,  his 
father,  with  fifty  others  of  the  old  generals  of  the  empire,  was  dropped 
from  the  army-list.  Gen.  Hugo  died  in  1828,  leaving  unfinished  a  work 
on  fortification,  which  has  not  yet  seen  the  light.  From  this  time,  the 
young  poet  had  little  to  depend  upon  but  his  own  labors  as  poet  and 
dramatist.  In  one  of  his  prose-works,  he  gives  an  interesting  account 
of  his  early  married  life,  when  his  beautiful  wife  was  in  the  prime  of 
her  days,  and  his  two  sons  and  two  daughters  were  playing  about  his 
feet  as  he  sat  at  his  desk.  His  life,  he  tells  us,  was  rude,  but  sweet. 
In  the  evening,  before  settling  to  his  work  for  the  night,  he  would  lie 
down  upon  the  floor ;  and  the  little  ones  would  climb  up  on  him,  laugh- 
ing, singing,  jesting,  playing.  The  mother  taught  them  to  read  :  he 
taught  them  to  write.  Sometimes  he  wrote  with  them  upon  the  same 
table, — they,  alphabets  and  strokes;  he,  something  else:  and,  while 
they  slowly  and  seriously  wrote  their  strokes  and  letters,  he  finished 
a  swift  page. 

Since  those  happy,  peaceful  days,  what  a  life  the  poet  has  lived, 
what  events  he  has  witnessed  !  He  has  written  twenty  volumes  of 
poetry,  some  of  which  is  the  best  in  the  whole  literature  of  France. 
He  has  written  nine  romances,  several  of  which  have  been  translated 
into  every  civilized  language  of  the  earth.  He  has  written  ten  plays, 
of  which  five  or  six  made  great  successes.  He  has  written  nearly 
twenty  volumes,  large  and  small,  of  prose,  much  of  it  admirable,  and 
all  of  it  breathing  the  noblest  love  of  human  kind. 

Besides  this  enormous  mass  of  literature,  he  has  served  his  coun- 
try with  disinterested  zeal  under  every  administration,  and,  best  of 
all,  under  Louis  Napoleon,  when  he  lived  nineteen  years  an  exile,  and 
refused  the  amnesty  offered  him  by  that  basest  of  all  usurpers. 

I  do  not  wonder  at  the  late  unparalleled  celebration  of  his  eightieth 
birthday  in  Paris,  a  festival  in  which  the  whole  population  of  the  city 
seemed  to  take  part,  at  least  by  filing  past  his  house,  and  by  giving 


2IO  VICTOR  HUGO. 

him  a  respectful  salute.  All  the  houses  of  the  street  in  which  he 
lived  were  decorated  with  flags  and  streamers  ;  and  nearly  every  organ- 
ized body  in  Paris,  whether  musical,  literary,  political,  or  social,  took 
part  in  the  procession.  Let  me  add  a  few  words ;  for  I  have  before 
me  a  complete  account  of  the  whole  festival,  published  in  Paris  three 
days  after  it. 

Before  the  procession  began  in  the  morning,  a  group  of  little  chil- 
dren, from  four  to  six  years  of  age,  clothed  in  white,  rose-color,  and 
blue,  came  to  greet  the  "  Grandfather,"  on  behalf  of  all  the  other  little 
children  of  Paris.  A  bewitching  little  girl  stepped  forward,  and  recited 
some  verses  to  this  effect  :  — 

"  We  are  the  little  birds,  light  of  wing,  who  come  to  sing  songs  to 
the  Eagle.  He  is  terrible,  but  very  nice ;  and,  without  making  him  in 
the  least  angry,  we  can  thrust  our  heads  under  his  wing. 

"  We  are,  though  still  in  the  bud,  the  flowers  of  the  coming  dawn, 
which  perfume  the  golden  mosses  of  the  oak. 

"We  are  little  children  who. come,  gay,  active,  happy,  to  greet  with 
triumphant  laughter  the  Ancestor.  If  Jeanne  and  George  [grandchil- 
dren of  Victor  Hugo]  are  jealous,  so  much  the  worse  for  them.  That 
is  their  affair.     And  now  kiss  us,  grandfather." 

Jeanne  and  George  were  not  jealous  ;  and  the  aged  poet,  with  tears 
in  his  eyes,  kissed  and  thanked  them.  Soon  after  this  scene,  the 
avenue  was  filled  with  the  children  of  the  infant  schools,  who  clamored 
for  a  sight  of  the  poet.  He  appeared  at  the  window  with  his  grand- 
children. Every  boy  took  off  his  hat ;  every  girl  waved  her  handker- 
chief ;  every  voice  cried,  "  Vive  Victor  Hugo  !  Vive  la  Republique  !  " 
So  began  this  wonderful  festival,  which  did  not  close  until  midnight. 


ST.    PIERRE, 

THE    AUTHOR    OF    "PAUL    AND    VIRGINIA. 


By  JAMES  T.  FIELDS. 

THERE  are  certain  books  that  are  read  to  be  laid  aside,  and  there 
are  certain  other  books  that  are  laid  aside  to  be  read.  No  one 
who  reads  at  all  gets  through  life  without  having  perused  "  The  Vicar 
of  Wakefield"  and  "Paul  and  Virginia."  These  two  stories  are  some- 
times bound  up  together  for  the  immediate  use  of  young  persons,  who 
are  sure  to  be  told  that  they  cannot  afford  to  remain  long  in  the  world, 
and  be  ignorant  of  the  people  who  are  native  to  these  attractive 
volumes. 

My  first  pilgrimage  in  London  was  to  the  rooms  which  Goldsmith 
had  occupied,  for  I  could  not  remember  the  time  when  "  The  Vicar  of 
Wakefield "  was  not  a  delight  to  me ;  and,  landing  at  Havre  on  my 
earliest  visit  to  Europe,  I  had  not  been  on  shore  a  single  hour  before 
seeking  out  the  house  in  which  the  author  of  "  Paul  and  Virginia  "  was 
born,  in  the  year  1737.  I  found  the  place  without  difficulty,  having 
obtained  direction  to  the  locality  from  the  very  first  person  I  appealed 
to  in  the  street. 

Early  in  life,  I  adopted  the  plan,  when  in  a  strange  place,  either  at 
home  or  abroad,  of  asking  information,  as  to  street  or  person,  of  an 
intelligent-looking  female,  rather  than  to  one  of  my  own  sex,  and  for 
this  reason  :  Men  are  apt  to  be  hurrying  along,  bent  solely  on  their 
own  affairs,  and  do  not  care  to  be  stopped  by  a  stranger,  and  questioned 
as  to  matters  unimportant  to  themselves.  Besides,  your  average  well- 
dressed  man  on  the  sidewalk  is  not  half  so  apt  to  be  possessed  of  the 
requisite  knowledge  as  ladies  who  are  moving  over  the  same  pavement. 
Male  pedestrians,  nine  out  of  ten,  are  superficial,  ill-mannered,  and  in- 
different, or  not  in  the  mood  for  conferring  favor  of  information  on  an 


2  12  ST.   PIERRE. 

inquiring  stranger.  Women,  on  the  contrary,  are  habitually  more  sym- 
pathetic, and  inclined  to  oblige.  They  are  certainly,  as  a  constitu- 
tional characteristic,  much  more  graciously  mannered  than  men ;  and 
I  am  yet  to  receive  the  first  gruff  reply  from  a  lady  in  the  street,  when 
I  have  requested  answer  to  any  question  necessary  for  my  convenience 
to  be  solved. 

The  mode  of  bestowing  a  kindness  is  often  of  more  value  than  the 
thing  conferred.  The  art  of  being  gracious  is,  to  put  it  mildly,  not 
exclusively  possessed  by  those  who  go  about  the  streets  inside  of 
hats,  coats,  and  trousers.  A  man  appealed  to  in  the  street  tells  you 
he  does  not  know  with  a  short,  sharp  report,  like  an  unsympathetic 
revolver.  A  woman,  not  able  to  answer  your  question,  does  so  with  an 
apologetic  smile  and  a  beneficent  tone,  which  linger  in  your  memory 
sometimes  like  Titian's  portraits,  which,  Hazlitt  says,  are  all  sustained 
by  sentiment,  and  look  as  if  the  persons  whom  he  painted  sat  to 
music. 

Foreigners,  perhaps,  have  more  sympathy  for  strangers  who  need 
information  than  either  English  or  Americans ;  and  the  instructed 
lady  who  showed  me  the  nearest  way  to  No.  47,  Rue  de  la  Corderie, 
in  Havre,  seemed  pleased  that  she  could  render  me  so  gracious  a  ser- 
vice. Titania's  exhortatory  line  to  the  elves  in  the  case  of  Nick 
Bottom,  "  Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman,"  could  not  have 
been  better  carried  out.  The  good  woman  insisted  upon  proceeding 
with  me  to  the  quaint  old  house,  although  it  was  evidently  not  in  the 
direction  she  was  going  when  I  met  her  ;  but  the  service  was  performed 
so  kindly,  I  could  not  offer  a  word  of  protest.  Leading  me  along  the 
quays,  we  threaded  our  way  through  the  bustling  streets,  piled  up  with 
cotton-bales,  sugar-hogsheads,  and  other  commodities,  all  reminding 
me  of  the  tropical  countries  which  had  made  Havre  their  port  of  trade. 
Unwonted  cries  of  parrots  and  macaws  filled  the  air,  and  their  spar- 
kling plumage  made  the  streets  resplendent  with  color.  At  length  we 
came  to  the  house  we  were  in  search  of. 

Entering  the  little  shop  on  the  lower  floor,  the  master  of  it  came 
smiling  towards  me,  and  politely  inquired  what  he  could  do  to  serve  me. 

"  Will  monsieur  please  to  be  seated  ?  " 

"  Merci  !  but  I  have  no  business,"  was  my  reply. 

The  little  perruquier  looked  disappointed,  and  began  to  display  his 
wares,  consisting  of  odorous  soap,  combs,  brushes,  and  other  useful 
articles  for  the  toilet. 

"  I    have   taken    the    liberty  of   entering   the    house  in  which  the 


ST.   PIERRE.  213 

famous  author  of  '  Paul  and  Virginia '  was  born,  and  of  paying,  as  an 
American,  the  homage  of  my  admiration  for  his  genius,"  said  I. 

"Ah!  he  was  indeed  a  grand  author,  and  I  am  proud  to  do  busi- 
ness on  the  very  spot  where  he  was  born,"  replied  the  man. 

The  barber  and  I  then  sat  down  together  near  his  door,  for  it  was 
an  hour  of  the  day  when  no  customers  were  stirring ;  and  we  then  and 
there  compared  notes  as  to  the  great  merits  of  St.  Pierre,  whose  works 
were  as  familiar  as  the  prayer-book  to  my  new  friend.  Indeed,  he 
had  a  small  copy  of  "The  Indian  Cottage  "  on  his  shelf  of  perfumes; 
and  he  handed  it  down  for  my  inspection. 

This,  then,  was  the  birthplace  of  a  man  who  had  given  so  much 
pleasure  to  the  world,  the  starting-point  of  a  being  destined  to  confer 
so  lasting  a  benefit  on  mankind.  The  little  barber  being  called  away 
to  wait  upon  a  pompous  and  well-powdered  gentleman,  who  desired  to 
have  his  wig  put  in  "grand  style  "  for  the  fete  to  be  held  next  day  at 
Ingouville,  I  had  the  whole  doorway  to  myself.  Many  a  time  St. 
Pierre,  when  a  youth,  must  have  passed  over  this  threshold.  A  man 
of  acute  sensibility  all  his  life,  in  this  narrow  street  he  must  have  suf- 
fered some  of  the  pangs  that  wait  upon  a  temperament  like  his.  I 
remember  he  says,  somewhere  in  his  works,  that  a  single  thorn  could 
give  him  greater  pain  than  a  hundred  roses  confer  pleasure  :  and  I  also 
recalled  how  deeply  he  was  wounded  by  envious  and  malicious  contem- 
poraries, and  how  frequently  disease  lay  in  wait  for  him  ;  how,  at  one 
time,  he  was  seized  with  a  strange  malady,  flashes  of  fire  resembling 
lightning  dancing  before  his  eyes,  every  object  appearing  double  and 
moving, — like  CEdipus,  seeing  two  suns  in  heaven.  For  years  he  was 
a  man  "  perplexed  in  the  extreme ; "  and  what  he  endured,  people  born 
without  nerves  can  never  comprehend. 

The  complete  works  of  St.  Pierre  fill  twelve  octavo  volumes ;  but 
his  fame  will  always  rest  on  that  tender  little  idyl,  so  full  of  romantic 
interest,  published  in  1788,  which  was  written  in  a  garret  on  the  Rue 
St.  fitienne-du-Mont  in  Paris. 

A  touching  incident,  connected  with  the  manuscript  of  "  Paul  and 
Virginia,"  is  recorded  by  L.  Aime-Martin.  Madame  Necker  invited 
St.  Pierre  to  bring  his  new  story  into  her  salon,  and  read  it,  before 
publication,  to  a  company  of  distinguished  and  enlightened  auditors. 
She  promised  that  the  judges  she  would  convene  to  hear  him  were 
among  those  she  esteemed  the  most  worthy.  Monsieur  Necker  him- 
self, as  a  distinguished  favor,  would  be  at  home  on  the  occasion.  Buf- 
fon,  the  Abbe  Galiani,   Monsieur  and  Madame  Germain,  were  among 


214  ST.   PIERRE. 

the  tribunal  when  St.  Pierre  appeared,  and  sat  down  with  the  manu- 
script of  "  Paul  and  Virginia  "  open  before  him. 

At  first  he  was  heard  in  profound  silence.  He  went  on,  and  the 
attention  grew  languid  :  the  august  assembly  began  to  whisper,  to 
yawn,  and  then  to  listen  no  longer.  Monsieur  de  Buffon  pulled  out 
his  watch,  and  called  for  his  horses.  Those  sitting  near  the  door  noise- 
lessly slipped  out.  One  of  the  company  was  seen  in  profound  slum- 
ber. Some  of  the  ladies  wept,  but  Monsieur  Necker  jeered  at  them ; 
and  they,  ashamed  of  their  tears,  dared  not  confess  how  much  inter- 
ested they  had  been.  When  the  reading  was  finished,  not  one  word  of 
praise  followed  it.  Madame  Necker  criticised  the  conversations  in  the 
book,  and  spoke  of  the  tedious  and  commonplace  action  in  the  story. 
A  shower  of  iced  water  seemed  to  fall  on  poor  St.  Pierre,  who  retired 
from  the  room  in  a  state  of  overwhelming  depression.  He  felt  as  if 
a  sentence  of  death  had  been  pronounced  on  his  story,  and  that  "  Paul 
and  Virginia"  was  unworthy  to  appear  before  the  public  eye. 

But  a  man  of  genius  —  the  painter,  Joseph  Vernet,  who  had  not 
been  present  at  the  reading  at  Madame  Necker's  —  dropped  in  one 
morning  on  St.  Pierre  in  his  garret,  and  revived  his  almost  sinking 
courage.  "  Perhaps  monsieur  will  read  his  new  story  to  his  friend 
Vernet  ? "  So  the  author  took  up  his  manuscript,  which  since  the 
fatal  day  had  been  cast  aside,  and  began  to  read.  As  Vernet  listened, 
the  charm  fell  upon  him,  and  at  every  page  he  uttered  an  exclamation 
of  delight.  Soon  he  ceased  to  praise  :  he  only  wept.  When  St.  Pierre 
reached  that  part  of  the  book  which  Madame  Necker  had  found  so 
much  fault  with,  the  author  proposed  to  omit  that  portion  of  the  nar- 
rative ;  but  Vernet  would  not  consent  to  omit  any  thing.  When  the 
book  was  finished,  Vernet  threw  his  arms  about  St.  Pierre,  and  told 
him  he  had  produced  a  masterpiece. 

"My  friend,"  exclaimed  Vernet,  "you  are  a  great  painter,  and  I 
dare  to  promise  you  a  splendid  reputation!"  Fifty  editions,  in  the 
year  "Paul  and  Virginia"  was  published,  attested  the  wise  judgment 
of  Joseph  Vernet. 

St.  Pierre  was  an  enthusiast  for  nature ;  and  we  can  never  be  grate- 
ful enough  to  the  men  and  women,  who,  like  him,  have  written  books 
to  make  us  more  in  love  with  her  beauties  and  harmonies,  who  have 
themselves  been  transported  with  the  glories  of  her  divine  works,  — 
those  careful  observers  and  students  who  have  the  power  to  bring, 
even  in  winter  months,  the  robins  singing  again  about  our  doors,  as 
in  the  summer-time. 


ST.   PIERRE.  2I<; 

For  my  own  part,  I  can  never  be  sufficiently  thankful  for  the 
writings  of  Wordsworth,  Thomson,  Cowper,  Bryant,  Thoreau,  Kings- 
ley,  and  those  other  high-priests  of  nature,  who  have  spoken  to  us, 
either  in  their  loftiest  or  simplest  moods,  of  what  is  so  elevating  and 
instructive.  It  is  a  good  thing  to  be  alive  while  John  Burroughs  is 
bringing  out,  at  pleasant  intervals,  his  delightful  volumes,  so  full  of 
grace  and  accurate  suggestion ;  and  I  always  wish  to  take  off  my  hat 
in  homage,  when  I  face  him  in  the  street,  to  George  B.  Emerson,  for 
those  two  noble  volumes  which  can  make  the  forests  of  Massachusetts 
our  neighbors  and  companions  every  day  in  the  year. 

St.  Pierre's  "  Studies  of  Nature "  is  full  of  interest,  discursive 
though  it  is  apt  to  be  in  many  of  its  chapters.  In  one  of  the  passages 
of  this  work,  he  expressed  a  wish  that  he  might  find  a  suitable  com- 
panion for  life.  Many  letters,  making  overtures  for  the  situation, 
poured  in  upon  him.  He  finally  married  a  beautiful  and  accomplished 
daughter  of  the  celebrated  printer,  Didot ;  and  two  of  their  children 
were  named  Paul  and  Virginia.  Some  time  after  her  death,  he  es- 
poused, in  second  marriage,  a  young  girl  of  noble  family  named  De 
Pellepore,  with  whom  he  lived  in  conjugal  felicity  to  the  end  of  his 
career.  The  disparity  of  their  ages  was  no  bar  to  their  happiness  ; 
and  the  lady  is  described,  by  those  who  knew  her,  as  a  model  wife,  and 
most  careful  guardian  of  his  children. 

St.  Pierre  died  in  the  month  of  January,  1814,  at  the  age  of 
seventy-seven.  His  last  years  were  filled  with  tranquillity,  and  were 
as  happy  as  his  youthful  ones  had  been  sad  and  restless.  He  was  a 
beautiful  old  man  in  personal  appearance  ;  and  his  long  silver  hair, 
flowing  carelessly  over  his  well-knit  shoulders,  gave  him  prominence, 
as  an  individual,  even  in  the  crowded  streets  of  Paris.  The  common 
people  knew  and  loved  his  venerable  form,  and,  as  they  passed,  always 
saluted  with  reverence  the  author  of  "  Paul  and  Virginia." 


JULES   GREW, 

THIRD    PRESIDENT    OF    FRANCE. 


By  JAMES    PARTON. 

THE   first  remark  that  occurs  to  one  on  seeing   a  photograph  of 
President  Grevy,  is,  that  he  does  not  look  like  a  Frenchman. 

A  broad-shouldered,  strong  man,  with  an  open,  serene  countenance, 
close-cut  whiskers,  and  a  marked  expression  of  good  temper,  cheerful- 
ness, and  benevolence,  he  would  pass  anywhere  for  an  English  or 
American  man  of  business.  His  forehead  is  broad  and  high,  and  the' 
whole  look  of  the  man  inspires  confidence  and  respect. 

It  is  an  error,  however,  to  suppose  that  every  Frenchman  is  a  slen- 
der, bowing,  gesticulating  person,  with  baggy  trousers,  and  a  ticket 
for  a  ball  always  in  his  pocket.  France  is  inhabited  by  as  many  kinds 
of  people  as  England  is ;  and  the  French  differ  from  one  another  as 
much  as  a  Yorkshire  man  does  from  a  man  of  Kent,  or  as  either  of 
these  does  from  the  people  of  Cornwall. 

Jules  Grevy  is  a  native  of  the  department  of  the  Jura,  which  is 
traversed  by  the  Alpine  Mountains  of  that  name.  Between  the  ridges 
of  the  Jura  Mountains,  which  are  about  as  high  as  our  White  Moun- 
tains, are  deep,  extensive,  and  fertile  valleys,  which  have  been  inhabited 
by  many  generations  of  a  strong  and  peculiar  race. 

The  men  of  the  Jura,  the  tallest  in  France,  are  distinguished,  as 
Monsieur  Reclus  informs  us,  by  a  short  body,  broad  shoulders,  long 
limbs,  and  a  thoughtful,  astute  character.  Without  being  cold  and 
phlegmatic,  they  have  always  been  noted  for  self-control ;  and  hence 
they  have  excelled  as  diplomatists.  They  are  not  a  talkative  people, 
like  the  Frenchmen  of  the  interior  provinces. 

The  father  of  Jules  Grevy  was  a  true  child  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion.    When  volunteers  were  called   for,  in    1792,  to  defend   France 
216 


JULES   GREW. 


217 


against  the  invading  kings,  the  young  farmer  Grevy  was  one  who 
shouldered  the  patriotic  musket ;  and  his  comrades  elected  him  chef-de- 
battaillon,  a  rank  nearly  corresponding  to  our  major.  He  fought  for 
his  country  until  peace  was  made.  Then,  like  a  true  republican  soldier, 
he  returned  to  his  farm,  and  spent  the  rest  of  his  days  in  cultivating 

the  soil. 

~  "  ^'     l  '^| 


This  Burgundy  farm- 
er was  able  to  give  his 
three  boys  a  profes- 
sional education.  The 
two  elder  were  bred  to 
the  law  :  the  youngest, 
Paul,  entered  the  mili- 
tary school. 


Jules  Greuy. 


Jules  pursued  his  education  at  the  College  of  Poligmy,  a  few  miles 
from  his  home.  This  was  fortunate  ;  because  it  retained  him  in  the 
family  circle,  under  the  influence  of  his  liberal-minded  father. 

That  father  had  an  insight  into  the  causes  and  the  nature  of  the 
French  Revolution,  which  came  from  his  having  lived  through  it,  and 
otfered  his  life  for  it.  It  has  been  frequently  remarked  of  President 
Grevy,  that  he  has  a  singularly  clear  and  sympathetic  comprehension 


218  JULES  GREW. 

of  the  revolutionary  period.  He  imbibed  it,  as  Daniel  Webster  im- 
bibed his  love  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  from  the 
conversations  at  his  father's  fireside. 

Jules  Grevy  acquired  at  home  that  republican  sense  and  insight 
which  have  made  him  the  first  ruler  of  his  country  who  has  at  heart 
believed  in  the  republic. 

At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  was  in  Paris,  pursuing  his  legal  studies. 
This  was  the  memorable  year,  1830,  when  Charles  X.  was  driven  from 
the  throne,  and  Louis  Philippe  took  his  uneasy  seat  upon  it. 

That  revolution  began  with  tearing  down  from  the  walls  of  Paris 
the  king's  posters,  announcing  that  freedom  of  the  press  was  at  an 
end  in  France.  A  great  multitude  of  girls,  lads,  and  young  men, 
encouraged  by  their  elders,  ran  up  and  down  the  streets,  removing  and 
obliterating  the  offensive  proclamations.  One  of  the  students  who 
engaged  in  this  exercise  was  Jules  Grevy. 

He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1837,  and  began  practice  in  Paris, 
with  small  chance  of  a  successful  career.  He  was  on  the  right  side 
in  politics,  which  is  often  the  wrong  side  for  prompt  success  in  a 
learned  profession. 

But,  as  Louis  Philippe  opposed  more  and  more  the  will  of  the  peo- 
ple, he  created  more  business  for  opposition  lawyers,  among  whom 
Jules  Grevy  early  distinguished  himself  for  his  firm,  moderate,  and 
able  defence  of  persons  prosecuted  by  the  government  for  political 
offences.  In  1839,  when  he  was  but  twenty-six  years  of  age,  and  had 
been  but  two  years  an  advocate,  he  won  signal  honor  by  defending, 
before  the  Court  of  Peers,  two  prisoners,  Phillipet  and  Quignot, 
accused  of  an  offence  which  the  government  called  insurrection.  The 
credit  he  won  in  this  case  brought  him  many  similar  ones,  and  pre- 
pared the  way  for  all  his  subsequent  career.  He  arrived  at  length  at 
the  highest  rank  among  the  lawyers  of  Paris. 

His  public  life  dates  from  the  flight  of  Louis  Philippe  in  1848,  the 
second  king  whom  he  had  seen  forced  to  make  a  hasty  escape  across 
the  Channel  from  the  indignation  of  the  people  of  France.  He  was 
then  thirty-five  years  of  age,  known  chiefly  as  an  able,  strenuous, 
cheerful,  plodding  lawyer,  with  strong  republican  opinions.  The  pro- 
visional government  sent  him  to  his  native  Jura,  clothed,  for  a  time, 
with  great,  almost  despotic,  powers.  These  powers  he  exercised  with 
his  accustomed  moderation,  using  his  best  endeavors,  not  to  inflame 
the  passions  of  the  people,  but  to  allay  the  prevailing  excitement. 
When    the    crisis  was   at   an  end,  he  was   elected  one  of   the   seven 


JULES   GREW.  219 

members  of  the  assembly  to  which  his  province  was  entitled,  and  his 
majority  was  the  greatest  of  the  seven. 

Transferred  to  the  national  legislature,  he  was  still  the  same  man 
as  at  the  bar,  —  laborious  in  investigation,  strong  and  unpretending 
in  speech.  Without  being  extreme  or  unpractical,  he  was  a  decided 
and  uncompromising  republican.  He  believed  in  the  republic.  He 
also  felt  that  France  was  at  heart  so  republican,  that  there  never 
could  be  popular  content  and  stable  peace  until  the  national  longing 
for  a  republic,  baffled  as  it  had  been  for  sixty  years,  should  be  gratified. 

When  Jules  Grevy  heard  the  tidings,  on  the  morning  of  Dec.  2, 
185 1,  of  Louis  Napoleon's  treason,  he  went  at  once  to  meet  his  col- 
leagues, to  discuss  with  them  what  it  became  them  to  do.  He  advised 
armed  resistance  ;  but  the  usurper  had  taken  his  measures,  and  the 
member  from  Jura  soon  found  himself  a  prisoner  with  the  rest  of  the 
republican  leaders.  Resistance  was  manifestly  impossible.  Ere  long 
Jules  Grevy  was  at  his  old  work  in  the  Paris  courts,  defending,  as  best 
he  could,  men  accused  by  the  agents  of  the  self-chosen  ruler. 

During  the  long  period,  nearly  twenty  years,  of  the  imperial  regime, 
Grevy  was  one  of  the  select  band  of  patriotic  men  who  were  called 
"  Irreconcilables."  He  maintained  a  firm  and  prudent  opposition  to 
the  measures  of  the  government,  particularly  to  the  war  with  Germany, 
which  was  more  nearly  devoid  of  cause  than  any  other  war  of  modern 
times.  Before  a  soldier  had  marched,  he  foretold  publicly  that  the  war 
would  be  "disastrous  for  France."  The  usurpation  ended,  he  returned 
to  the  assembly,  which  elected  him  its  president  with  a  near  approach  to 
unanimity.  He  acquired  an  ascendency  over  the  unruly  body,  naturally 
resulting  from  the  combined  strength  and  serenity  of  his  mind. 

After  serving  as  president  for  two  stormy  years,  he  resigned  under 
circumstances  which  greatly  increased  his  reputation  and  influence. 
He  called  to  order  the  Duke  de  Grammont  for  applying  the  word 
"impertinent  "  to  a  remark  by  another  member.  The  aristocratic  party 
clamored  against  this  act  of  discipline,  and  would  not  be  appeased. 
The  chairman  addressed  them  thus  :  — 

"  Gentlemen,  if  I  have  not  performed  the  duties  of  my  place  as 
you  have  the  right  to  demand  of  me,  it  is  necessary  that  I  should  know 
it.  I  neither  asked  for,  nor  sought,  the  place  to  which  you  elected  me. 
"  I  have  fulfilled  my  duty  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  according  to  my 
sense  of  justice,  and  with  impartiality.  If  I  do  not,  in  return,  obtain 
from  you,  gentlemen,  the  justice  to  which  I  believe  I  have  a  right, 
I  shall  know  what  it  becomes  me  to  do." 


220  JULES   GREW. 

The  next  day  he  resigned,  and  held  to  his  resignation,  although  but 
twenty-one  votes  were  cast  against  him. 

On  Jan.  30,  1879,  he  was  elected  president  of  the  republic  by  a 
joint  convention  of  the  senate  and  assembly.  In  a  body  consisting  of 
seven  hundred  and  thirteen  members,  he  received  five  hundred  and 
sixty-three  votes  ;  and  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  this  vote  fairly 
represented  the  state  of  parties  in  France. 

As  president,  he  has  maintained  his  character  of  modesty,  modera- 
tion, and  simplicity.  He  has  made  no  epigrams,  committed  no  bril- 
liancy, avoided  pageants  and  "progresses,"  and  kept  close  to  the 
business  of  his  office. 

In  his  bearing,  in  the  daily  routine  of  his  life,  and  in  the  arrange- 
ment of  his  house,  he  is  like  a  president  of  the  United  States,  but 
with  this  difference  :  he  gives  more  time  than  our  presidents  usually 
do  to  rest  and  social  pleasures. 

He  has  a  beautiful  garden,  in  which  he  spends  much  time  in  sum- 
mer, and  where  he  often  retires  for  quiet  conversation  with  his  minis- 
ters. He  will  have  his  game  of  chess  every  afternoon,  and  rarely 
misses  his  ride  in  the  afternoon,  accompanied  by  his  wife  and  daughter. 

An  old  friend  relates  that  his  favorite  spot  in  his  garden  is  a  little 
lake  wherein  are  some  ducks,  which  the  president  is  fond  of  feeding 
and  watching.  When  he  is  puzzled  what  answer  to  make  to  an  impor- 
tant question,  he  strolls  down  to  his  beloved  duck-pond,  and,  while  he 
feeds  his  favorites  with  crumbs  of  bread,  thinks  over  the  business  in 
hand. 

President  GreVy  is  now  seventy  years  of  age.  So  far  as  we  can 
judge  from  this  distance,  he  enjoys  the  confidence  of  his  countrymen 
in  a  high  degree. 

No  ruler  in  Europe  has  a  more  difficult  office  to  fill  than  he,  and 
nothing  saves  him  in  it  but  sheer  virtue.  If  he  serves  out  successfully 
and  happily  the  remaining  three  years  of  his  term,  and  leaves  his  place 
unimpaired  to  a  successor,  it  will  be  because  of  his  sincerity,  his  firm- 
ness, his  quiet,  Washington-like  way  of  using  all  his  powers,  with  the 
single  object  of  doing  the  best  thing  possible  in  the  circumstances. 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT. 


By  JAMES   T.   FIELDS. 

I  HAVE  known  few  things  in  the  world  more  delightful  than  to 
meet  people  who  have  conversed  with  Sir  Walter  Scott.  It  has 
been  my  good  fortune  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  several  persons 
who  lived  near  the  great  man,  and  were  on  intimate  terms  with  him 
for  years.  To  hear  them  describe  the  traits  in  his  character,  imitate 
the  tones  of  his  sympathetic  voice,  and  dwell  upon  his  genius,  was 
indeed  something  to  delight  in. 

One  of  his  old  Edinburgh  friends,  the  excellent  Adam  Black,  told 
me,  that  when  Scott  came  stumping  along  the  road  with  his  cane  and 
his  dogs,  and  raised  his  cheery  voice  of  greeting,  it  seemed  as  if  his 
merry  laugh  cleared  the  whole  air,  and  Nature  herself  rejoiced  to  have 
him  abroad  amid  her  glories.  Mr.  Black  declared  him  to  be  the  best- 
humored  man  that  ever  lived,  —  a  man  whose  sympathy  was  always 
ready,  and  whose  kindness  was  enduring. 

One  of  his  contemporaries  said  it  was  impossible  to  decide  whether 
he  had  the  clearest  head  or  the  soundest  heart  in  all  Scotland.  How 
they  loved  him  on  Tweed-side,  we  may  gather  from  his  son-in-law's 
beautiful  anecdote  of  the  poor  music-master  who  offered  Scott  all  his 
savings  when  the  great  novelist  fell  into  pecuniary  embarrassment. 

It  was  a  thing  to  be  remembered,  to  hear  Washington  Irving  dis- 
course of  Scott.  To  the  end  of  his  life,  our  own  charming  writer  of 
"The  Sketch-Book  "  could  not  speak  of  his  friend  without  enthusiasm. 
How  kind  the  author  of  "Waverley"  was  to  the  timid  young  Ameri- 
can, when  Scott  received  him,  in  1817,  at  Abbotsford ! 

"The  glorious  old  minstrel,"  said  Irving,  "came  limping  (for  he 
was  very  lame)  to  the  gate,  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  we  were  friends 
in  a  moment.  I  cannot  express  to  you  my  delight  in  his  character 
and  manners.     He  was  a  sterling,  golden-hearted  old  worthy,  full  of 


222  S/J?    WALTER  SCOTT. 

the  joyousness  of  youth  ;  and  his  deportment  towards  his  family,  his 
neighbors,  his  domestics,  the  very  dogs  and  cats,  I  can  never  forget. 
Every  thing  that  came  within  his  influence  seemed  to  catch  a  beam  of 
that  sunshine  which  played  around  his  heart.  He  entered  into  every 
passing  scene  and  passing  pleasure  with  the  intent  and  simple  enjoy- 
ment of  a  child.  Nothing  seemed  too  high  or  remote  for  the  grasp 
of  his  mind,  and  nothing  too  trivial  for  the  kindness  and  pleasantry 
of  his  spirit." 

People  who  died  prior  to  the  7th  of  July,  18 14,  were  unfortunate 
in  one  respect,  if  no  other ;  for  on  that  day  was  published  the  first  of 
the  "  Waverley  "  romances.  A  world  without  Scott's  novels  in  it  must 
have  been  rather  a  lean  place  to  live  in,  surely ;  and  we  can  never  quite 
estimate  the  dulness  and  vacuity  of  a  globe  which  existed  before  that 
immortal  story-teller  was  born  into  it. 

Mr.  Rufus  Choate  told  me  he  well  remembered  seeing,  when  a 
youth,  a  bookseller  in  Salem  one  morning  hang  up  a  show-bill  outside 
his  shop-door,  on  which  was  printed,  in  large  letters,  "  This  day  pub- 
lished a  New  Novel,  'Waverley,'  or  'Tis  Sixty  Years  Since."  And  an 
old  lady  in  Philadelphia  once  described  the  intense  enthusiasm  the 
coming  out  of  those  novels  produced  in  that  city.  She  said  she  re- 
membered, when  a  child,  seeing  a  woman  rush  into  a  shop,  where,  in 
those  days,  they  sold  every  thing,  and  hearing  her  cry  out,  in  an 
excited  tone,  "  Give  me  '  Peveril  of  the  Peak '  and  two  candles  as  quick 
as  possible  ! " 

Sir  Walter  Scott's  boyhood  has  been  most  pleasantly  described  by 
himself,  and  is  full  of  interest.  When  only  a  year  and  a  half  old,  a 
fever  deprived  him  of  the  use  of  his  right  leg ;  and  he  never  wholly 
recovered  from  the  lameness.  They  carried  the  little  fellow  into  the 
country,  and  tried  all  sorts  of  prescribed  remedies,  hoping  to  cure  the 
poor  boy's  malady. 

Among  other  things,  this  one  he  remembered,  and  often  laughed 
about  it  in  after-life.  Whenever  a  sheep  was  killed  for  the  use  of  the 
family  at  the  farm,  little  Walter  was  stripped,  and  swathed  up  in  the 
skin,  warm  from  the  animal's  carcase.  Then  they  laid  him  down  on 
the  parlor-floor,  and  tried  to  make  him  crawl  about,  in  order  to  get 
strength  into  his  damaged  limb.  His  grandmother  and  grandfather 
were  his  playfellows  in  those  early  days,  and  used  to  tell  their  small 
grandson  stories  of  Scottish  heroes,  grave  and  gay,  and  amuse  him  as 
best  they  could  with  old  books  and  songs  of  the  past.  When  the  day 
was  fine,  they  carried  the  child  out  into  the  air,  and  laid  him  down 


SIR    WALTER  SCOTT.  223 

beside  an  old  shepherd  among  the  crags  and  rocks  where  the  sheep 
were  feeding. 

By  degrees,  the  boy  got  strength  to  stand,  then  to  walk,  and  then 
to  run ;  but  he  never  was  wholly  cured  of  his  lameness.  At  Bath  he 
lived  a  year  for  the  benefit  of  the  waters,  and  it  was  there  he  first 
learned  to  read  at  a  dame's  school.  I  think  his  lameness  gave  him 
many  hours  of  leisure  within  doors  which  he  might  not  have  had  if 
his  limb  had  been  sound.  At  any  rate,  he  devoured  books  at  a  rapid 
rate,  and  early  became  on  fire  for  deeds  of  chivalry.  He  read  with 
avidity  every  thing  he  could  lay  his  hands  upon  in  the  form  of  history 
and  poetry ;  and,  when  some  odd  volumes  of  Shakspeare  first  fell  in 
his  way,  he  read  the  plays  with  a  kind  of  rapture,  sitting  up  half- 
dressed,  and  rapidly  perusing  them  by  the  light  of  a  midnight  fire  when 
the  family  had  retired  to  bed. 

As  he  grew  older,  a  benevolent  old  man,  who  owned  a  library, 
recommended  him  to  read  "  Ossian  "  and  "Spenser;"  and  these  books 
excited  him  to  a  wonderful  degree.  All  this  time  he  was  a  scholar  in 
the  High  School  of  Edinburgh,  getting  into  his  head  as  much  Latin  and 
Greek  as  he  had  room  for.  Soon  he  became  inspired  by  the  beauties 
of  the  natural  scenery  on  the  banks  of  the  Tweed  and  the  Teviot, 
and  this  early  worship  of  the  beautiful  in  God's  world  never  deserted 
him. 

After  he  left  college,  and  his  father  had  entered  him  a  student  at 
law,  he  began  to  compose  legendary  romances,  and  stirring  ballads, 
which  he  repeated  with  much  applause  to  a  knot  of  cronies  who  were 
never  tired  of  listening  to  Watty  Scott,  as  they  called  the  young  man. 
Lame  as  he  was,  he  was  a  great  walker  in  those  days,  and  frequently 
accomplished  thirty  miles  a  day  in  visiting  ruins  and  old  battle-fields. 
Wandering  over  the  field  of  Bannockburn  gave  him  exquisite  pleas- 
ure ;  and  he  explored  many  an  old  castle  with  James  Ramsay,  his 
fellow  law-apprentice.  Sir  Walter  lamented,  all  his  life  long,  that  he 
had  not  studied  more  thoroughly  the  essentials  of  a  good  education, 
and  often  said  he  had  neglected  his  school  advantages  in  early  youth. 
But,  during  his  pupilage,  he  certainly  learned  many  things  worth 
knowing. 

When  Walter  was  a.  boy  of  fifteen,  Robert  Burns,  the  bard  of  Scot- 
land, came  up  to  Edinburgh  for  a  first  visit  to  the  capital.  Young 
Scott  would  have  given  the  world  to  speak  with  Burns,  he  so  loved  his 
poetry,  and  so  honored  the  man  ;  and,  at  last,  his  great  desire  was 
gratified.     Burns  came   to  Professor  Ferguson's  one  day  when  Scott 


224  •£/»    WALTER  SCOTT. 

and  some  half-dozen  other  youngsters  were  present.  An  engraving  of 
a  dead  soldier  in  the  snow,  with  his  dog  by  his  side,  and  his  widow  and 
child  watching  near,  was  handed  about  among  the  company.  Under 
the  picture  were  some  lines  descriptive  of  the  sad  scene. 

Burns  was  so  affected  by  the  picture  that  he  shed  tears,  and  asked 
who  was  the  author  of  the  lines.  Nobody  remembered  them  but  the 
boy,  Walter  Scott ;  and  he  whispered  the  author's  name  to  a  friend 
standing  near,  who  informed  Burns.  The  poet  turned,  and  looked 
kindly  at  the  knowing  lad  ;  and  Scott  remembered  that  look  all  his 
life. 

Walter  Scott  is  indeed  a  literature  in  himself.  His  genius  throws 
a  lustre  on  the  art  of  story-telling,  and  renders  fiction  a  boon  to  the 
human  race.  His  imagination  had  a  range  of  eight  centuries  to  unfold 
itself  in,  and  he  roamed  through  them  with  a  masterful  power  and 
beauty.  No  good  reader  ever  outgrows  Sir  Walter.  Once  take  him 
to  your  heart,  and  there  is  no  parting  company  with  him  after  that. 
In  age  he  will  be  just  as  fresh  as  he  was  to  you  in  childhood ;  and  you 
will  never  tire  of  his  delightful  companionship,  or  have  a  misunder- 
standing with  him. 

Lockhart's  description  of  Sir  Walter's  last  hours,  in  the  year  1832, 
once  read  can  never  be  forgotten.     He  says,  — 

"As  I  was  dressing  on  the  morning  of  Monday  the  17th  of  September,  Nicol- 
son  came  into  my  room,  and  told  me  that  his  master  had  awoke  in  a  state  of  com- 
posure and  consciousness,  and  wished  to  see  me  immediately.  I  found  him  entirely 
himself,  though  in  the  last  stage  of  feebleness.  .  .  .  '  Lockhart,'  he  said,  '  I  may  have 
but  a  minute  to  speak  to  you.  My  dear,  be  a  good  man  —  be  virtuous  —  be  religious 
—  be  a  good  man.  Nothing  else  will  give  you  any  comfort  when  you  come  to  lie 
here.' 

"About  half-past  one  p.m.,  on  the  21st  of  September,  Sir  Walter  breathed  his 
last,  in  the  presence  of  all  his  children.  It  was  a  beautiful  day,  so  warm  that  every 
window  was  wide  open,  and  so  perfectly  still  that  the  sound  of  all  others  most  deli- 
cious to  his  ear,  the  gentle  ripple  of  the  Tweed  over  its  pebbles,  was  distinctly 
audible  as  we  knelt  around  the  bed,  and  his  eldest  son  kissed  and  closed  his  eyes." 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT'S   HOME. 


By   LOUISE   CHANDLER   MOULTON. 

IT  is  a  long  trip  from  London  to  Edinburgh  ;  but,  if  you  take  the 
Flying  Scotchman,  you  do  it  in  ten  hours.  The  Flying  Scotchman 
is  the  fast  express,  which  makes  only  three  or  four  stops  between  the 
two  cities,  and  goes,  I  believe,  at  the  rate  of  sixty  miles  an  hour.  It 
does,  indeed,  seem  like  flying.  A  bird  on  rapid  wing  ftiust  get  much 
such  glimpses  of  the  world  about  him  as  we  got,  tearing  on  through 
the  country  that  long  day. 

We  reached  Edinburgh  in  the  evening.  The  friend  we  were  to 
visit  was  glad  of  this ;  for  he  was  an  American  of  Scotch  descent,  and 
had  enough  of  a  Scotchman's  pride  in  Edinburgh  to  want  us  first  to 
see  "  The  Castle  "  in  all  its  morning  glory.  Everybody  talks  of  the 
castle  when  you  are  in  Edinburgh.  You  cannot  forget  it  if  you  would ; 
for  it  dominates  every  thing,  and  it  is  the  heart  of  every  thing. 

I  think  no  city  in  the  world  can  possibly  be  more  picturesque  than 
Edinburgh.  Its  site  and  structure  combine  to  make  it  unique.  It  is 
a  city  of  hills  and  valleys.  Castle  Rock,  as  the  site  of  the  castle  is 
called,  is  some  seven  hundred  feet  in  circumference ;  and  on  three 
sides  it  is  just  bare  rock,  so  precipitous  that  foot  of  man  could  hardly 
scale  it.  Accessible  only  on  one  side,  a  place  more  perfectly  adapted 
for  a  fortress  can  scarcely  be  imagined. 

The  old  gray  castle  itself  is  one  of  the  most  picturesque  of  build- 
ings. Whether  you  see  it  at  sunrise,  at  high  noon,  in  the  tender  twi- 
light time,  or  when  the  pale  moon  visits  it,  it  is  alike  beautiful ;  but  I 
think  the  view  of  it  which  will  linger  longest  in  my  memory  is  that 
I  had  one  afternoon  when  I  sat  on  a  green  bank  in  the  Princes'  Street 
Gardens,  and  listened  to  the  band  of  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland's 
Own,  as  a  favorite  regiment  of  Highlanders  is  called.  The  sun  sank 
lower  and  lower  as  the  band  discoursed  its  sweet,  shrill  music,  until  at 


226 


SIR    WALTER  SCOTT'S  HOME. 


last  the  valley  was  in  shadow,  while  all    the  sunset   glow  and  glory 
rested  on  the  gray  old  castle,  making  its  windows  flame  like  opals. 

I  seem  to  remember  Edinburgh  and  the  region  round  it  in  a  series 
of  pictures.  Every  thing  about  it  is  picturesque.  The  buildings  are 
all  of  stone, — a  fine-grained  sandstone,  which  is  quite  equal  in  beauty 
to  marble.  It  is  susceptible  of  the  utmost  delicacy  of  carving ;  and  it 
so  well  resists  the  effects  of  time  and  the  weather,  as  to  retain  longer 
than  almost  any  other  stone  its  freshness  of  aspect. 

Arthur's  Seat  seemed  to  me  the  most  beautiful  of  the  many  hills 

around  Edinburgh.  The 
Queen  climbed  to  the 
top  of  it  in  a  former 
visit ;  and,  if  she  could, 
why  not  we  ?  So  we 
left  our  carriage  at  the 
base  of  the  hill,  and 
struggled  on  and  up. 
Arthur's  Seat  is  a  great 
rock  at  the  very  top  of 
the  hill,  in  which  you 
can  trace  a  sort  of  fan- 
tastic resemblance  to  a 
chair.  I  sat  there  on 
the  jagged  old  rock,  and 
looked  forth  with  such 
a  swelling  at  my  heart 
as  I  cannot  at  all  put 
into  words.  I  have  sel- 
dom, if  ever,  seen  a 
view  at  once  so  extended  and  so  lovely.  Edinburgh  lay  spread  out 
there  in  all  its  stately  beauty.  Other  more  distant  hills  confronted 
you  with  their  solemn  peace.  Off  at  one  side  was  Leith,  the  seaport 
of  Edinburgh,  and  beyond  it  the  sea,  —  blue,  bright,  illimitable.  It 
was  worth  a  much  harder  climb  to  look  upon  such  a  scene. 

I  suppose  no  pilgrim  would  go  to  Edinburgh  without  extending  his 
pilgrimage  to  Abbotsford,  and  to  Dryburgh,  and  Melrose  Abbey.  The 
house  where  Scott  was  born  has  been  pointed  out  to  you  in  Edin- 
burgh. You  have  seen  his  monument  there  in  the  Princes'  Street 
Gardens,  where  he  is  raised  on  a  pedestal  of  triumph,  surrounded  by 
scenes  and  characters  from  his  works.     But  these  are  nothing  to  com- 


Edinburgh    Castl 


SIR    WALTER  SCOTT'S  HOME. 


227 


pare  in  interest  to  the  house  he  himself  built,  and  in  which  he  passed 
the  last  and  most  brilliant  years  of  his  life. 

We  went  from  Edinburgh  by  train,  stopped  at  Melrose  Station,  and 
then  drove  to  Abbotsford.  One  wonders  very  much  at  the  great  nov- 
elist's choice  of  a  location  for  his  noble  and  stately  mansion.  It  is 
by  no  means  a  commanding,  or  even  a  picturesque,  site ;  but  to  Sir 
Walter,  who  was  a  pas- 
sionate antiquary,  the 
grounds  were  interest- 
ing as  being  a  reputed 
haunt  of  Thomas  the 
Rhymer,  and  contain- 
ing various  Caledonian 
antiquities;  but  to  other 
people  they  must  have 
seemed  tame  and  bleak 
and  uninviting  enough, 
these  grounds,  until  Sir 
Walter  set  his  splen- 
did house  there,  and 
made  them  one  of  the 
shrines  of  the  world  for 
all  the  English-speak- 
ing   pilgrims    of    the   future. 

It  has  been  called  "a  romance 
in  stone  and  lime,"  this  gray  man- 
sion, with  its  strange  combinations  of 
various  styles  of  architecture,  its  lofty 
arched  gateway,  its  towers,  its  projecting  win- 
dows, and  hanging  turrets,  its  bold  gables,  and  its 
numerous  and  sometimes  fantastic  decorations. 
The  entrance-hall  is  a  magnificent  apartment, 
about  forty  feet  in  length.  Its  floor  is  a  mosaic 
of  black  and  white  marble  from  the  Hebrides.  Its  walls  are  panelled 
with  richly  carved  oak,  and  tastefully  hung  with  ancient  armor.  The 
dining-room  has  a  wonderful  black-oak  roof  and  a  fine  collection  of 
pictures,  and  it  is  the  apartment  in  which  Sir  Walter  died.  The 
drawing-room  is  cased  with  cedar,  and  furnished  with  beautiful  antique 
chairs  of  ebony,  presented  to  Sir  Walter  by  King  George  IV. 

The  most  interesting  room  of  all  is  the  library.      It  is  the  largest 


Home  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 


228  "       SIR    WALTER  SCOTT'S  HOME. 

of  all  the  rooms,  measuring  fifty  feet  by  sixty.  Its  roof  is  of  richly 
carved  oak,  modelled  after  Roslin  and  Melrose.  Its  books  number  at 
least  twenty  thousand  volumes,  many  of  them  extremely  rare  and 
valuable.  They  are  placed  in  carved  oaken  cases,  under  lock  and  key. 
How  we  did  long  to  turn  over  some  of  their  leaves !  But  it  was  no 
use  longing.  Among  the  adornments  of  the  room  are  Chantrey's  bust 
of  Scott,  a  copy  of  the  Stratford  bust  of  Shakspeare,  a  silver  urn  pre- 
sented by  Lord  Byron,  an  ebony  writing-desk  presented  by  a  Royal 
George,  and  two  beautifully  carved  arm-chairs  presented  by  the  Pope. 

The  tall  Scotchman  who  conducted  us  about,  told  us  not  one  thing 
in  the  library  had  been  changed  since  Sir  Walter  left  it.  We  felt  that 
it  was  a  time  to  be  very  enthusiastic ;  but  how  could  we,  when  there 
were,  perhaps,  twenty  visitors  in  all,  crowding,  and  trying  to  look  over 
each  other's  heads,  and  the  "braw  Hielandmon,"  in  the  midst  of  us, 
was  shouting  out  his  information  at  the  top  of  his  strained,  high- 
pitched,  monotonous  voice  ? 

There  was  much  more  room  for  emotion  at  Dryburgh  Abbey, 
whither  we  drove  immediately  on  leaving  Abbotsford.  At  Dryburgh 
Abbey  Sir  Walter  is  buried,  and  I  think  there  could  be  no  lovelier 
resting-place  in  all  this  world.  At  Dryburgh  our  little  party  of  three 
was  quite  alone.  No  guide  persecuted  us.  We  left  our  carriage,  and 
crossed  the  little  foot-bridge  over  the  Tweed,  and  then  walked  through 
the  long,  leafy  lanes  to  the  old  abbey.  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  old  place  it 
is  !  The  portions  of  the  abbey  which  remain  are  of  the  rarest  architec- 
tural perfection.  There  is  a  wonderful  rose-window,  round  which  the 
ivy  had  grown,  till  the  window  seems  framed  in  the  green  leafage. 
St.  Mary's  aisle,  where  is  the  tomb  of  Sir  Walter,  is  the  most  perfect 
portion  remaining.  But  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  abbey,  in  its  prime, 
must  have  been  far  less  interesting  than  in  its  picturesque  and  pathetic 
decay. 

Melrose  Abbey  was  much  more  perfect,  but  for  me  had  less  charm. 
Dryburgh  is  remote  from  all  the  stir  of  life,  in  a  sylvan  solitude. 
Melrose  is  in  a  little  town,  near  a  rattling,  noisy  railway  station  ;  and 
commonplace  houses  crowd  thickly  around  it.  It  is,  however,  a  vision 
of  architectural  beauty.  Do  you  remember  how  Sir  Walter  wrote  of 
it  in  "The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel"  ? 

"  If  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 
Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight; 
For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 
Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  gray. 


SIR    WALTER  SCOTT'S  HOME.  229 

When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night, 

And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white ; 

When  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 

Streams  on  the  ruined  central  tower; 

When  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately, 

Seem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory ; 

When  silver  edges  the  imagery, 

And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and  die ; 

When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave, 

And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead  man's  grave, 

Then  go  —  but  go  alone  the  while  — 

Then  view  St.  David's  ruined  pile ; 

And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear, 

Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair !  " 

No  doubt,  Sir  Walter  was  right,  and  beautiful  Melrose  is  far  more 
impressive  when  the  sounds  of  surrounding  life  are  still,  and  the  moon 
shadows  and  softens  surrounding  objects  ;  but,  as  it  is,  it  is,  even  in 
its  decay,  a  most  exquisite  specimen  of  Gothic  architecture  in  its 
noblest  and  best  conception. 


CHARLES   KINGSLEY. 


By   E.   P.   WHIPPLE. 

CHARLES  KINGSLEY  has  been  one  of  the  Forces  of  the 
present  generation.  He  literally  pitched  heart-foremost,  if  not 
head-foremost,  into  all  the  social,  scientific,  and  political  problems, 
thoughtfully  discussed  by  the  more  careful  thinkers  of  the  time,  as  a 
kind  of  "free  lance,"  committed  from  the  start  to  a  championship  of 
the  emotional  side  of  every  question  which  his  calmer  contemporaries 
were  inclined  to  consider  from  its  reasonable  side. 

If  the  difficulties  which  trouble  all  thinking-men  in  their  endeavors 
to  advance  the  human  race  could  be  overcome  by  gushes  of  philan- 
thropic sentiment,  Kingsley  would  have  rapidly  risen  to  be  the  first 
man  of  his  time.  In  his  early  books,  he  opposed  all  the  established 
principles  of  social  and  political  economy,  and  made  "  good  will  to 
men  "  to  consist  in  favoring  those  economical  fallacies,  which,  in  the 
end,  produce  "ill  will  to  men." 

The  same  vehement  passions  which  urged  him  at  first  to  violate 
those  established  laws  which  are  the  slow  but  sure  conditions  of  the 
welfare  of  humanity,  made  him,  at  the  end,  a  defender  of  what  may 
be  called  retrogression  as  opposed  to  progress.  He  lived  long  enough 
to  assail  almost  every  intelligent  practical  measure  intended  to  advance 
the  cause  he  really  cherished  in  his  heart. 

He  became,  owing  to  the  absence  of  clear  reason  as  a  guide  to  his 
conduct,  an  earnest  supporter  of  Eyre,  the  governor  of  the  British 
Colony  of  Jamaica,  on  account  of  the  "energy"  he  displayed  in  his 
senseless  crusade  of  murder  and  massacre  against  the  unoffending 
negroes  of  that  island,  on  a  mere  pretence  of  their  disloyalty ;  and  he 
was  one  of  those  prominent  Englishmen,  especially  loved  and  honored 
in  the  free  States  of  America,  —  owing  to  the  philanthropic  element 
which  inspired  their  many  books,  —  who  still  took  the  Southern  side 

23° 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY.  231 

in  our  great  war  of  the  Rebellion.  From  youth  to  age  his  sensibil- 
ities and  impulses  predominated  over  his  learning  and  intelligence  ; 
though,  as  his  works  plainly  show,  he  had  a  large  share,  both  of  intelli- 
gence and  learning.  His  life,  edited  by  his  widow,  is  one  of  the  most 
popular  biographies  which  have  appeared  during  the  past  fifty  years  ; 
but  it  contains  hardly  a  single  opinion  which  a  trained  economist  or 
statesman  would  admit  without  large  qualifications. 

John  Stuart  Mill,  for  example,  though  a  radical,  could  never,  in  his 
boyhood,  have  gone  so  far  in  radicalism  as  Kingsley  did  in  his  early 
manhood ;  but  Mill  was  both  a  reasoner  and  a  reasonable  being :  and 
Kingsley's  strange  and  sudden  deviations  from  the  logical  results  of 
his  early  passionate  convictions  must  have  impressed  Mill  with  a  kind 
of  compassionate  contempt.  Yet  Mill  would  have  never  doubted  that 
Kingsley  was  as  honest  in  the  freaks  of  feeling  which  made  him  a  tory, 
as  in  the  freaks  of  feeling  which  made  him  a  socialist. 

The  real  lesson  taught  by  Charles  Kingsley's  life  is  this  :  that  he 
was  the  most  impulsive,  the  most  inconsistent,  the  most  passionate, 
and,  at  heart,  the  most  conscientious,  of  human  beings.  It  is  this  fact 
that  makes  the  account  of  his  school  and  college  life  so  interesting. 
Young  students  will  find  in  it  much  to  inspire  them  with  a  desire  to 
emulate  his  virtues  ;  but  his  solid  virtues  were  so  bound  up  with  his 
fascinating  defects,  that  whoever  emulates  him  must  take  care  not  to 
imitate  in  whole  what  is  only  valuable  in  part. 

Kingsley  never  arrived  at  intellectual  and  moral  manhood.  He  was 
a  boy,  —  a  grand,  a  glorious  boy,  when  he  first  appeared  as  a  dogmatic 
man,  assuming  to  direct  English  thought ;  and  a  boy,  a  splendid  boy, 
he  remained  to  the  last  year  of  his  life.  All  his  vagaries  of  opinion 
and  sentiment,  the  strange  inconsistencies  of  his  career,  all  the 
sense  and  all  the  nonsense  which  alternately  shocked  or  attracted  his 
contemporaries,  were  properly  to  be  referred  to  the  plain  fact  that  he 
never  became  a  mature  man.  All  the  learning  he  acquired,  all  the 
experience  of  life  he  accumulated  through  long  years,  all  his  contacts 
and  collisions  with  the  minds  of  friends  who  represented  the  most  ad. 
vanced  intellect  of  the  age,  never  could  cure  him  of  the  boyish  defect 
of  substituting  impulse  for  intelligence,  even  in  the  consideration  of 
those  complicated  problems  in  which  intelligence  should  manifestly 
be  the  supreme  guide  and  arbiter. 

His  father  was  an  excellent  clergyman  of  the  old  English  stamp. 
He  was  what  is  called  a  "hunting-parson,"  a  man  of  sound  religious 
sentiments  and  principles,  who  did  not  think  "following  the  hounds" 


232  CHARLES  K1NGSLEY. 

at  all  disqualified  him  to  be  a  preacher  and  an  example  of  righteous- 
ness and  a  consoler  of  death-beds.  "  Muscular  Christianity  "  was  pal- 
pably the  atmosphere  into  which  the  young  Kingsley  was  born.  But 
a  certain  sense  and  impulse  of  right  characterized  the  boy  from  his 
cradle,  accompanied  with  that  moral  fastidiousness  which  feeds  juvenile 
self-importance.  He  wrote  sermons  at  an  early  age.  Indeed,  while 
his  mind  and  character  were  in  the  process  of  formation,  he  had  be- 
come infected  with  the  moral  disease  of  talking  as  if  he  loved  every- 
body, and  of  acting  as  if  he  loved  only  a  chosen  few. 

The  slightest  contrast  of  character  in  the  boys  with  whom  he 
played  and  studied,  quickly  roused  his  antipathies.  A  lover  of  the 
whole  human  race  in  the  abstract,  he  still  found  hardly  a  companion 
with  whom  he  could  individually  sympathize.  He  was  a  childish  type 
of  some  of  our  modern  philanthropists,  whose  comprehensive,  benev- 
olent feelings  include  all  the  inhabitants  of  America,  Europe,  Asia,  and 
Africa,  but  who  practically  belong  to  that  class  of  conservative  citizens 
who  are  most  ready  to  call  in  the  constable  to  kick  a  common  beggar 
from  their  inhospitable  doorsteps. 

Shy  in  behavior  toward  his  fellow-students,  Kingsley,  as  a  boy,  still 
recognized  them  to  a  certain  extent ;  that  is,  he  condescended  to  as- 
sure them  of  his  superiority  to  them  all,  because,  while  he  was  their 
equal  in  Latin  and  Greek,  he  had,  before  the  age  of  eight,  developed 
a  taste  for  the  poetical  aspects  of  Nature,  which  they  did  not  feel ; 
and  had  acquired  some  knowledge  of  botany  and  geology,  of  which 
they  knew  nothing.  This  conceit  would  have  been  quickly  knocked 
out  of  him  had  he  gone  to  one  of  the  public  schools  of  England,  but 
his  private  tutors  unconsciously  fostered  it.  They  felt  that  they  had 
to  do  with  a  boy  of  genius,  but  their  management  of  him  was  not 
judicious.  The  Rev.  R.  C.  Powles  admits  that  Charles,  while  under 
his  care,  was  not  popular  among  his  schoolmates.  "  He  did  not  con- 
sciously snub  those  who  knew  him  ;  but  a  good  deal  of  unconscious 
snubbing  went  on,  all  the  more  resented,  perhaps,  because  it  was  un- 
conscious." 

Up  to  the  time  he  went  to  college,  his  instructors,  without  knowing 
it,  educated  him  in  self-will ;  and,  when  he  entered  Cambridge  Univer- 
sity, he  was  soon  distinguished  for  the  recklessness  with  which  he 
doubted  every  thing  which  the  orthodox  professors  believed,  and  the 
fierceness  with  which  he  threw  himself  into  fishing,  boating,  hunting, 
driving,  boxing,  fencing,  shooting,  and  field-sports  generally.  He  still 
contrived  that  his  wildest  recreations  should  assist  him  in  his  studies 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 


233 


in  natural  history,  and  his  quickness  of  apprehension  enabled  him  to 
keep  fairly  up  with  his  fellow-students  in  the  classics  and  mathematics  : 
but  his  mind,  bright  as  it  was,  was  in  a  state  of  anarchy  during  his 
whole  university  life ;  and  the  anarchy  of  his  mind  was  fairly  repre- 
sented in  the  anarchy  of  his  character. 


Charles   Kingsley. 


The  only  thing  that  saved  him  from  ruin  was  the  force  and  purity 
of  his  emotional  nature.  He  loved  his  father  and  mother,  his  brother 
and  sisters,  dearly.  He  wished  to  do  nothing  which  would  bring  sor- 
row to  them  by  bringing  disgrace  on  him.  He  therefore  kept  himself 
morally  upright ;  but  of  intellectual  uprightness,  of  that  fine  mental 
conscientiousness  which  characterizes  thinkers  of  the  first  class,  and 


234  CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 

which  ranks  a  comforting  sophism  in  the  class  of  serious  offences,  he 
never  appears  to  have  formed  an  adequate  idea. 

It  is  pitiable  to  state  that  all  his  theological  doubts  were  solved, 
not  by  patient  thinking  and  investigation,  not  even  by  deep  religious 
experience  and  earnest  prayer,  but  by  his  early  love  for  the  young 
maiden  who  eventually  became  his  wife.  She  states  that  there  began, 
when  he  was  at  the  age  of  twenty,  "  his  doubts  about  the  Trinity  and 
other  important  doctrines.  He  revolted  from  what  seemed  to  him 
the  bigotry,  cruelty,  and  quibbling  of  the  Athanasian  Creed,  —  that 
very  creed  which  in  after-years  was  his  stronghold."  We  are  left 
to  surmise  that  all  his  doubts  on  the  most  awful  questions  which  can 
exercise  the  faculties,  and  test  the  strength  of  a  vigorous  mind,  were 
practically  decided  by  a  girl  of  eighteen,  operating,  by  the  magnetic 
power  of  love,  on  the  affections  of  a  rash  and  "green  "  youth  of  twenty, 
not  yet  even  a  graduate  of  the  university,  the  very  conditions  of  ad- 
mission to  which  he  had  presumptuously  disregarded. 

Enough  has  been  said  of  the  doubtful  side  of  Kingsley's  character, 
and  his  career  at  school  and  college.  It  is  pleasant  to  turn  to  its 
fascinating  side.  The  boy  had,  first  of  all,  courage.  He  never  flinched 
from  danger,  he  never  showed  any  weak  sensibility  to  pain.  In  the 
playground  he  never  hesitated  at  attempting  feats  of  skill  and  strength 
which  involved  the  risk  of  broken  bones.  In  his  thirteenth  year  he 
climbed,  three  or  four  days  in  succession,  a  high  tree,  to  take  an  egg 
from  a  hawk's  nest.  On  the  fifth  day,  it  happened  that  the  mother 
hawk  was  in  her  nest.  She  attacked  Charles,  both  with  beak  and 
claws.  He  retained  his  self-possession,  though  cruelly  punished  for 
his  intrusion.  An  ordinary  boy,  thus  surprised,  would  have  dropped 
at  once  from  the  tree,  and  perhaps  broken  his  neck.  Kingsley  came 
down  as  coolly  and  steadily  as  he  had  gone  up,  though  the  blood  was 
streaming  from  his  lacerated  hands  as  he  descended. 

On  another  occasion,  when  he  was  troubled  with  a  sore  finger,  he 
remembered  that  somebody  had  told  him  it  might  be  cured  by  cautery ; 
and,  becoming  his  own  physician,  he  heated  a  poker  red-hot  by  the 
schoolroom  fire,  and  calmly  applied  it  two  or  three  times  until  the  cure 
was  effected. 

In  his  earliest  boyhood  days  his  father  was  rector  of  a  church  in 
a  fishing-town.  This  town  (Clovelly)  was  something  like  Gloucester, 
in  Massachusetts,  as  far  as  regards  its  tragedies  of  shipwreck.  De- 
lighting, as  Charles  did,  in  the  wind  and  waves,  he  had  early  experience 
of  the  human  woe  which  often  accompanied  the  storms ;  and  in  after- 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY.  235 

years  he  described  some  of  the  calamities  he  had  witnessed  as  a  boy, 
with  a  vividness  of  imaginative  vision  which  shows  how  indelibly  the 
incidents  were  stamped  on  his  memory. 

Thus  he  speaks  of  a  vessel  blown  by  a  storm  :  "  on  a  slab  of  rock, 
rising  slowly  on  every  surge,  to  drop  again  with  a  piteous  crash  as 
the  wave  fell  back  from  the  cliff,  and  dragged  the  roaring  pebbles 
back  with  it  under  the  coming  wall  of  foam.  You  have  heard  of  ships, 
at  the  last  moment,  crying  aloud  like  living  things  in  agony  ?  I  heard 
it  then,  as  the  stumps  of  her  masts  rocked  and  reeled  in  her,  and  every 
plank  and  joint  strained  and  screamed  with  the  dreadful  tension." 

And  afterwards  he  described  another  scene  :  "  when  the  gray 
columns  of  water-spouts  came  stalking  across  the  waves  before  the 
northern  gale,  overwhelming  the  tiny  herring-boats  ;  and  the  beach 
beside  the  town  was  covered  with  shrieking  women  and  old  men,  cast- 
ing themselves  on  the  pebbles  in  fruitless  agonies  of  prayer,  as  corpse 
after  corpse  was  swept  up  at  the  feet  of  wives  and  children." 

So  frequent  were  such  calamities,  that  Kingsley  said,  a  few  years 
after,  that  hardly  one  of  the  playmates  of  his  boyhood  survived. 
"One  poor  little  fellow's  face,"  he  writes,  "starts  out  of  the  depths 
of  memory  as  fresh  as  ever,  my  especial  pet  and  bird's-nesting  com- 
panion as  a  boy,  —  a  little,  delicate,  precocious,  large-brained  child,  who 
might  have  written  books  some  day  if  he  had  been  a  gentleman's  son  ; 
but,  when  his  father's  ship  was  wrecked,  they  found  him,  left  alone,  of 
all  the  crew,  just  as  he  had  been  lashed  to  the  rigging  by  loving  and 
dying  hands,  but  cold  and  stiff,  the  little  soul  beaten  out  of  him  by  the 
cruel  waves  before  it  had  time  to  show  what  growth  there  might  have 
been  in  it." 

Such  early  experiences  as  these  must  have  awakened  and  deepened 
Kingsley's  sympathy  with  his  race.  The  intensity  with  which  he 
describes  them  proves  that  they  had  originally  impressed  his  imagina- 
tion as  well  as  his  heart,  and  the  imagination  never  forgets. 

It  is  also  to  be  said,  in  respect  to  his  university  life,  that  the  same 
physical  energy  which  made  him  neglect  his  studies  for  fishing  and 
field-sports,  was  converted  into  mental  and  moral  energy  when  he  had 
reason  to  fear,  that,  at  the  end  of  his  residence  in  Cambridge,  his  rank 
as  a  scholar  would  be  very  low.  He  condensed  the  results  of  studies 
which  should  have  been  spread  over  three  years,  into  six  months  of 
continuous  and  desperate  work.  He  came  out,  in  the  examination  for 
honors,  first  class  in  classics,  and  "Senior  opt"  in  mathematics;  but 
he  did  all  this  at  the  expense  of  a  strain,  both  on  his  mind  and  body, 


236  CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 

which  at  the  time  threatened  serious  consequences  to  his  health,  and 
which  would  have  driven  an  ordinary  student,  who  did  not  possess  his 
quickness  of  perception,  into  imbecility  or  insanity. 

"  My  brains,"  he  wrote  at  the  time  he  was  preparing  for  his  exami- 
nation, "  are  in  such  an  overworked  and  be-Greeked  state,  that  I  can- 
not answer  for  always  talking  sense  just  now.  ...  I  read  myself  ill 
this  week,  and  have  been  ordered  to  shut  up  every  book  till  the  exami- 
nation ;  and,  in  fact,  the  last  three  weeks  in  which  I  had  to  make  a  rally 
from  the  violent  exertion  of  the  mathematical  tripos,  have  been  spent  in 
agonies  of  pain  with  leeches  on  my  head,  just  when  I  ought  to  have  been 
straining  every  nerve." 

"Violent  exertion ! "  That  is  the  impression  which  Kingsley's  books 
and  clerical  work  convey  equally  to  the  reader  of  his  works,  and  to  the 
reader  of  his  biography.  He  had  no  repose  in  that  life  of  his,  — espe- 
cially none  of  that  repose  which  comes  from  continuous  and  compre- 
hensive thought.  He  read  the  book  of  nature  and  the  book  of  life  by 
flashes  of  lightning,  not  by  steady  sunlight.  One  wonders,  that  after 
reaching  what  are  called  "the  years  of  discretion,"  but  which,  with 
him,  were  always  "years  of  indiscretion,"  some  kind  wife  or  friend  had 
not  always  been  ready  to  apply  "  leeches  to  his  head  "  when  his  blood 
was  palpably  getting  the  mastery  of  his  brain.  His  intellectual  and 
moral  life  was  a  series  of  "violent  exertions." 

The  young  student,  who  may  justly  admire,  and  strive  to  emulate, 
his  earnestness  of  spirit,  and  kindness  of  heart,  should  also  be  warned 
to  be  proof  against  all  those  outbursts  of  sensibility  which  Kingsley 
mistook  for  principles. 


LORD  COLERIDGE  AND  THE  ENGLISH 
LAW   COURTS. 


By  W.  L.  WOODROFFE. 

A  CHANGE  has  come  over  the  position  of  bench  and  bar  in 
England  in  the  course  of  the  last  few  years. 

At  Westminster,  where  questions  of  common  law  were  tried,  there 
used  to  be  three  different  courts,  —  the  Queen's  Bench,  the  Common 
Pleas,  and  the  Exchequer;  and  each  of  these  had  five  judges  and  a 
chief.  The  Queen's  Bench  chief  was  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  Eng- 
land ;  the  other  two  were,  respectively,  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  the 
Common  Pleas,  and  Lord  Chief  Baron. 

Such  had  been  the  constitution  for  many  years,  and  thus  we  had 
three  great  judicial  officers  of  almost  an  ordinate  rank;  though,  as  pre- 
cedence had  to  be  settled,  the  degrees  were  in  the  order  in  which  they 
have  been  placed.  Now,  however,  there  is  but  one  chief  of  the  com- 
mon-law division,  and  he  has  the  title  of  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  Eng- 
land. The  post  is  filled  by  Lord  Coleridge,  who  certainly  is  not  likely 
to  let  it  suffer  in  dignity.  As  he  was  recently  in  the  United  States, 
some  details  of  his  life  will  be  interesting.  He  is  a  grand-nephew  of 
the  poet,  and  is  of  the  same  Devonshire  family,  —  tall,  very  bald,  and 
with  an  inveterate  habit  of  blushing.  It  would  be  an  exaggeration  to 
say  of  him  that  he  is  a  popular  man.  He  is  too  satirical,  and  he  seems 
to  lack  heartiness.  He  is  in  politics  a  Liberal,  and  was  peculiarly  ob- 
noxious to  Mr.  Disraeli  when  the  latter  was  in  office.  No  saying  of 
Lord  Beaconsfield's  was  more  often  quoted  in  England  than  one  in 
which  he  described  Sir  John  Coleridge's  eloquence  as  "a  stream  of 
silvery  mediocrity." 

Never  at  fault  for  a  word,  he  never  selects  a  wrong  one,  and  yet 
seldom    selects  a  strong  one.     There    is   no  successful  lawyer  at  the 

237 


238  LORD   COLERIDGE. 

English  bar  who  has  said  fewer  good  things  in  the  way  of  wit,  and  yet 
he  has  said  no  silly  things. 

He  was  always  a  safe  advocate,  and  sometimes  a  very  successful 
one.  In  breach  of  promise  of  marriage  cases  he  was  peculiarly  good. 
He  had  an  insidious  way  of  getting  damaging  admissions  from  a  wit- 
ness who  had  no  idea  that  he  was  examining  him  from  a  hostile  point 
of  view.  He  had  a  beautiful,  silvery  voice  :  and  his  way  of  holding  up 
a  love-letter,  and  reading  it,  and  then  laughing  at  it,  was  quite  an 
accomplishment ;  and  he  was  never  tired  of  repeating  it  with  success. 

He  takes  his  seat  at  Westminster  as  president  of  the  court,  and 
wears  over  his  scarlet  and  ermine  the  collar,  which,  from  the  days  when 
Gascoigne,  Lord  Chief  Justice,  rebuked  the  Prince  of  Wales  in  the 
reign  of  Henry  IV.,  has  been  one  of  the  recognized  badges  of  the 
Chief  Justice  of  England.  Amongst  the  other  judges  who  sit  beside 
him,  one  of  the  most  prominent  is  Sir  William  Grove.  He  is  one  of 
the  rare  instances  of  a  man  who  is  great  as  a  lawyer,  and  great  also 
at  something  else.  There  have  not  been  many  such.  Law  is  a  very 
jealous  mistress,  and  he  who  would  win  her  favors  must  devote  himself 
to  her. 

I  think  the  only  recent  judge  who  had  a  reputation  for  any  thing 
else  than  law  was  Talfourd,  whose  play  of  "  Ion  "  still  survives.  Sir 
William  Grove  was  eminent  in  the  scientific  world  before  he  took  his 
seat  on  the  bench,  and  his  "Treatise  on  the  Formation  of  Forces"  is 
a  classic  amongst  scientific  men.  The  questions  that  come  before  an 
English  judge  are  so  various,  that  it  is  well  they  should  all  be  some- 
thing else  than  mere  lawyers.  Old  Baron  Martin  delighted  in  any 
thing  connected  with  horses  or  horse-racing.  His  eye  would  brighten 
at  the  mention  of  terms  which  to  other  men  meant  very  little.  So 
now,  whenever  there  is  a  scientific  case,  questions  of  patents  or  ma- 
chinery, Sir  William  Grove  delights  to  take  what  would  puzzle  many 
of  his  brothers. 

The  contrast  between  him  and  Lord  Coleridge  is  very  remarkable. 
The  lord  chief  justice  has  a  high  opinion  of  his  office,  is  always  very  dig- 
nified and  very  precise.  Every  hair  in  his  wig  is  cared  for,  and  he  is  as 
particular  about  his  lace  ruffles  and  cuffs  as  a  young  girl.  Mr.  Justice 
Grove  is  very  untidy  and  unmethodical,  always  in  a  hurry,  and  gener- 
ally late.  One  morning,  while  the  judges  were  in  their  robing-room 
previous  to  opening  court,  Sir  William  had  not  yet  come  —  as  usual. 
A  fresh  appointment  had  just  been  made  to  the  bench,  and  it  was  not 
a  popular  one.     The  new  judge  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  toady, 


LORD    COLERIDGE. 


239 


who  lived  in  the  perfume  of  aristocratic  names,  — a  rather  vulgar  man 
with  a  great  worship  for  a  peer.  In  came  Sir  William,  hot  and  angry, 
and  muttering.  He  could  not  find  some  notes  he  had  made ;  his  wig 
was  awkwardly  on  his  head ;  he  was  angry,  as  all  the  others  were,  at 

the  last  appointment. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Grove?"  said 
Lord  Coleridge. 
Then  Sir  William  began  to  fuss 


and  to  fume,  and  to   r~ 
use  rather  strong  lan- 
guage about  the  new 
judge.       Lord     Coleridge 
listened  with  a  great  deal 
of  interest  and  sympathy; 
and,    when    the    angriest 
sentences  were  finished,  — 

"  Please  repeat  them  all 
over  again,  Sir  William," 
he  said.  "  I  never  use 
strong    language    myself,  Lord  coiendge. 

but  will  you  use  it  for  me  ? " 

Another  of  the  judges  who  were  on  the  same  bench  was  Sir 
Henry  Hawkins.  He  was  one  of  the  greatest  advocates  we  have  had 
in  this  generation,  and  perfectly  matchless  as  a  cross-examiner.  No 
one  could  break  down  a  witness  as  he  could,  or  so  adroitly  handle  a 
jury.  It  was  amusing  to  see  him  pitted  against  Sergeant  Ballantyne, 
who  is  a  man  of  considerably  more  ability,  but  careless,  lazy,  and  apa- 
thetic. These  two  men  were  always  scoring  off  one  another.  Perhaps 
the  best  thing  Ballantyne  ever  said  was  to   Hawkins.     The  latter  had 


240  LORD    COLERJDC 

the  reputation — at  the  bar,  at  all  events  —  of  being  very  fond  of  money. 
His  fees  were  always  large  ;  and,  in  a  certain  class  of  cases,  he  could 
command  any  price  he  liked.  Ballantyne  met  Hawkins  one  day  hur- 
rying across  Westminster  Hall  from  one  court  to  another." 

"There  you  go,  Hawkins,  scraping  the  money  together  as  usual, 
raking  in  the  guineas  by  the  thousand,  giving  yourself  no  time  or 
peace  or  enjoyment.  What  is  the  use  of  it  all  ?  You  can't  take  the 
guineas  away  with  you  when  you  die ;  and,  even  if  you  did,  they  d 
melt !  " 

We  have  but  few  sergeants  now  left  at  the  bar,  and  Sergeant  Bal- 
lantyne is  certainly  the  most  eminent  of  them.  They  are  dying  off 
one  by  one,  and  the  order  will  soon  disappear.  You  know  them  by  a 
little  black  wafer  on  the  tops  of  their  wigs,  and  this  is  called  the  coif. 
The  institution  is  very  old  and  very  singular.  In  the  early  days  of 
English  history,  renegade  clerks  would  practise  in  the  secular  courts 
as  advocates  or  judges,  though  the  canon  prohibited  them  from  doing 
so.  This  was,  of  course,  at  a  time  when  learning  was  almost  exclu- 
sively centred  in  the  clergy.  But  then  the  tonsure  was  the  inevitable 
badge  of  the  clerk ;  and,  if  it  were  visible,  his  secret  would  be 
detected. 

So  the  coif,  or  kerchief,  was  placed  under  the  wig,  just  at  the  spot 
where  the  tonsure,  if  it  existed,  might  occur.  And  this  coif  always 
remained  the  peculiar  appendage  of  a  sergeant  ;  and  it  is  laid  down  as 
one  of  his  rights,  that  he  may  wear  the  coif  in  the  presence  of  the 
sovereign,  and  even  "when  talking  with  the  King's  Majesty."  The 
only  rights  at  all  resembling  this  of  a  sergeant  are  those  claimed  by 
the  family  of  De  Courcy,  Barons  of  Hinsdale,  to  remain  covered  in 
the  presence  of  the  sovereign  ;  and  the  singular  privilege  of  the  Duke 
of  Medina  Celi, — as  hereditary  defender  of  the  Faith, — to  ride  into 
church  with  his  Jiclmct  on. 

But  the  sergeants  are  no  longer  needed,  and  "  Billy  Ballantyne  "  is 
one  of  the  last  of  them.  Few  men  have  got  bigger  fees,  or  given 
better  work  for  them.  The  sergeant  knows  scarcely  any  law, — that  is, 
of  course,  as  compared  with  his  eminence  ;  but  he  knows  what  is  more 
important,  —  men  and  women;  and,  of  all  men,  he  best  knows  jury- 
men. Thus  he  often  gets  the  jury  round  to  his  views,  and  readily  puts 
them  in  good  humor  at  the  beginning  of  the  case.  But  he  does  this 
at  the  expense  of  his  witness,  or,  rather,  of  his  adversary's  witness. 

The  wit  is  not  always  of  a  very  high  order,  but  it  wins  the  verdict. 
A  very  pompous  witness  was  in  the  box,  with  quite  a  florid  order  of 


LORD    COLERIDGE.  241 

face,  a  hat  with  a  brim  as  broad  as  a  bishop's  in  his  hand,  a  great 
bow-window  of  a  waistcoat  upholstered  with  a  heavy  cabling  of  watch- 
chain,  —  a  most  important  and  imposing  looking  witness,  whose  testi- 
mony seemed  to  carry  the  most  undeniable  weight. 

"  You're  an  auctioneer,  I  believe  ? "  said  the  sergeant,  looking  at 
him  rather  fiercely. 

"I  ham,"  said  the  other,  with  great  pomp. 

"And  a  remarkably  well-dressed  ham  you  are,"  said  Ballantyne. 
There  was  a  roar  through  the  court,  and  all  the  dignity  of  that  poor 
auctioneer  was  crushed. 

Ballantyne  recently  visited  the  United  States ;  and  those  who  saw 
his  slight,  spare  figure,  so  young-looking,  or  heard  his  drawling  voice, 
with  so  little  fire  or  force  in  it,  were  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  size 
of  the  fees  or  his  brief. 

In  his  palmy  days  he  has  got  five  hundred  pounds  for  cross-exam- 
ining a  few  witnesses,  and  the  money  was  well  laid  out.  I  have  spoken 
to  witnesses  who  have  been  badgered  by  him  in  the  box ;  and  they  all 
tell  the  same  story, — that,  when  he  was  angry,  he  was  very  terrible. 
He  had  a  wolfish  look  out  of  his  eye,  and  a  way  of  balancing  his  first 
finger,  and  calculating  the  effect  of  it,  that  was  much  more  fatal  than 
the  bullying  cross-examination  of  other  counsel. 

These  traits,  of  course,  are  not  recognized  on  the  platform,  where 
the  ease  with  which  he  tells  a  story,  and  the  gleams  of  humor  with 
which  he  enlivens  it,  are  the  most  striking  features  of  his  style. 


CHARLES   H.   SPURGEON. 


By  LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON. 

I  WENT,  on  a  pleasant  English  Sunday,  to  the  morning  service  at 
the  Metropolitan  Tabernacle,  to  hear  Pastor  Charles  H.  Spurgeon. 
I  had  previously  written  to  Mr.  Spurgeon,  expressing  my  desire  to 
be  present,  and  had  received  from  him  sundry  tickets  of  admission, 
each  one  in  the  form  of  a  small,  square  envelope,  with  a  picture  of  the 
Tabernacle  on  the  outside,  and  the  printed  words,  — 

"ADMIT   THE   BEARER. 
"  The  person  using  this  Pass  is  respectfully  asked  for  a  contribution  towards 
the  work  of  the  Lord,  under  the  superintendence  of  Pastor  C.  H.  Spurgeon." 

The  Tabernacle  is  "over  the  river,"  on  what  is  called  "the  Surrey 
side"  of  London,  —  a  situation  far  enough  removed  from  fashionable 
London,  but  with  plenty  of  life  and  interest  of  its  own.  As  we  drew 
near  to  the  place,  we  perceived  crowds  on  crowds  of  people,  all  pro- 
ceeding in  the  same  direction  ;  and  we  streamed  with  them  into  the 
great,  wide-open  gates  of  the  Metropolitan  Tabernacle. 

It  is  a  vast  building,  of  whitish-gray  stone.  The  front  has  massive 
Corinthian  pillars,  and  produces  a  semi-Grecian  architectural  effect ; 
but  all  attempt  at  ornament  or  beauty  ends  with  the  outside.  The 
tabernacle  has  twice  the  seating-capacity  of  Exeter  Hall,  where  so 
many  vast  spring-meetings  are  held.  The  whole  object  of  its  internal 
arrangement  is  to  accommodate  as  many  people  as  possible.  Fifty- 
five  hundred  can  be  seated  comfortably,  while  over  six  thousand  can 
be  somehow  or  other  disposed  of ;  and  often,  on  lecture  evenings,  over 
six  thousand  have  paid  their  shilling  apiece  for  admission. 

The  congregation  of  which  we  were  part,  on  the  4th  of  July,  1880, 
must  have  numbered  considerably  over  five  thousand.  I  think  every 
seat  in  the  house  must  have  been  filled.  I  could  see  no  vacant  space 
242 


CHARLES  H.   SPURGE  ON.  243 

anywhere.     To  regard  this  vast  sea  of  attentive  faces  was  one  of  the 
sights  of  a  lifetime. 

It  is  the  peculiar  construction  of  this  "  preaching-house  "  —  to  use 
one  of  Mr.  Spurgeon's  expressions  —  which  makes  it  possible  to  seat 
so  many.  It  is  a  long  hall,  completely  oval  in  shape,  all  around  which 
run  two  immense  galleries,  supported  on  strong  iron  pillars,  each  with 
seven  rows  of  seats,  rising  steeply  above  each  other,  like  the  seats  in 
the  gallery  of  a  theatre,  so  that  all  can  see.  Below  the  lower  of  these 
galleries  is  a  platform,  with  a  slight  railing  around  it,  and  a  sofa  at  the 
back,  where  were  seated  the  elders  of  the  church. 

At  the  front  of  the  platform  is  a  simple  table,  whereon  were  piled 
Mr.  Spurgeon's  Bible  and  hymn-books  ;  and  there  were  two  chairs,  one 
of  them  awaiting  Mr.  Spurgeon  himself,  and  the  other  occupied  by  a 
man  whose  office  it  proved  to  be  to  lead  the  singing.  The  tabernacle 
has  plain,  boarded  walls,  the  lower  half  painted  a  dull  yellow,  the  upper 
half  an  equally  dull  green.  There  is  no  stained  glass,  no  organ,  not  a 
single  decoration  of  any  sort.  I  never  was  in  a  place  of  worship  which 
gave  me  such  a  sense  of  being  devoted  to  the  work  of  the  Lord. 

We  looked  with  much  interest  around  the  vast  congregation  as- 
sembled. The  house  was  densely  filled  some  moments  before  it  was 
time  for  Mr.  Spurgeon  to  appear.  It  was  a  distinctively  w/zfashionable 
audience, — people  as  different  from  those  who  wear  Worth's  dresses 
and  the  bonnets  of  Madame  Louise,  and  drive  in  Hyde  Park  of  a 
summer  afternoon,  as  if  they  belonged  to  another  world.  But  what 
earnest  people  these  were,  who  had  come  together  in  the  great  preach- 
ing-house !  How  anxiously  expectant  were  their  faces  !  They  showed 
by  every  look  that  they  felt  themselves  to  be  attending  to  life's  weight- 
iest, most  momentous,  concern.  They  had  left  care  and  business,  and 
all  the  uses  of  this  world,  behind  them.  Some  of  them  were  evidently 
well-to-do  and  prosperous  ;  others  as  evidently  worn  and  weary,  and 
very  poor ;  but  all  were  alike  in  earnest. 

At  eleven  o'clock  Mr.  Spurgeon  appeared  on  the  platform.  He 
was  born  on  the  19th  of  June,  1834:  therefore  he  has  recently  passed 
his  fiftieth  birthday.  If  any  one  looks  for  any  grandeur,  any  beauty, 
any  air  of  command,  in  this  man  who  has  moved  so  many  men,  he  will 
be  disappointed.  Mr.  Spurgeon  is  short  and  stout,  with  hair  that  was 
dark,  but  is  now  iron-gray  ;  with  small,  twinkling  brown  eyes  ;  and  with 
a  cast  of  features  distinctly  heavy  until  some  emotion  kindles  them. 
He  has  a  strong,  powerful  head.  He  wears  a  full  beard,  and  his  short 
hair  stands  up  from  his  rather  low  forehead.     There  was  nothing  in 


244  CHARLES  H.   SPURGE  ON. 

his  aspect  in  the  least  to  indicate  the  man  who  has  undoubtedly  a 
larger  following,  and  a  larger  personal  influence,  than  any  preacher  in 
London,  perhaps  in  the  world. 

"  Let  us  pray,"  he  said,  as  he  walked  to  the  front  of  the  platform. 
Hearing  the  sound  of  his  voice,  one  began  to  understand,  in  part,  his 
power  over  the  hearts  of  men  It  is  a  sweet,  rich,  flexible  voice,  with 
a  wonderful  carrying  capacity.  His  first  prayer  was  brief  and  earnest, 
and  extremely  simple  in  phraseology.  It  gave  one  a  sense  of  intimacy 
with  God,  in  which  was  no  irreverence.  When  the  prayer  was  over, 
he  gave  out  the  forty-second  psalm,  —  an  old  Scotch  version,  com- 
mencing, — 

"  Like  as  the  hart  for  water  brooks 

In  thirst  doth  pant  and  bray, 
So  pants  my  longing  soul,  O  God  ! 

That  come  to  thee  I  may." 

He  read  each  verse  of  the  psalm  separately, .before  it  was  sung. 
There  was  something  startling  in  the  great,  tumultuous  outburst  of 
voices.  I  think  that  nearly  every  voice  in  the  congregation  was  up- 
lifted. A  great  wave  of  praise  seemed  to  rise  up  and  fill  the  vast  hall 
to  its  high-arched  roof.  Next  followed  the  reading  and  expounding 
of  the  fourth  chapter  of  the  Gospel  of  St.  John.  The  speaker  dwelt  on 
the  tact  and  delicacy  displayed  by  our  Lord  in  his  conversation  with 
the  woman  of  Samaria,  —  the  tenderness  which  forbore  to  accuse  her. 

The  preparatory  services  had  occupied  an  hour.  The  sermon  com- 
menced at  twelve  m.,  and  lasted  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  I  thought 
John  Bunyan  might  have  preached  just  such  a  discourse.  Mr.  Spur- 
geon's  style  is  admirable,  —  strong,  vigorous  Saxon,  short  sentences, 
simple  in  structure,  and  full  of  earnestness.  Any  thing  like  the  ab- 
sorbed attention  of  the  great  audience  I  have  never  seen.  Some  old 
men  were  wiping  their  eyes,  and  some  young  women  had  tears  upon 
their  cheeks  ;  but  no  one  moved  ;  and  sound  there  was  none,  except 
the  rich,  earnest,  far-reaching  voice  of  the  speaker.  I  said  there  was 
no  sound.  I  should  have  excepted  the  slight,  faint  rustle,  as  the 
congregation  turned  the  leaves  of  their  Bibles,  following  thus  all  the 
references  of  the  speaker. 

It  was  such  a  sermon  as  suited  the  text, — full  of  invitation  and 
of  encouragement.  Very  vividly  the  speaker  painted  the  tortures  of 
thirst, — thirst  in  the  desert,  thirst  amid  far-reaching  solitudes  of  salt 
sea-waves.  He  begged  those  who  were  athirst  to  drink.  Not  to  ques- 
tion their  right  to  the  draught,  not  to    think  they  were    not    thirsty 


CHARLES  II.   SPURGE  ON. 


245 


enough  to  claim  it,  but  only  to  drink.  His  illustrations  were  the  sim- 
plest, homeliest,  and  most  telling  that  could  be  imagined.  He  held 
the  breathless  interest  of  his  audience  to  the  very  end. 

In  his  manner  and  gestures  there  is  no  pretence  of  elegance.     In- 
deed, they  are  noticeably  the  reverse  of  elegant.     Sometimes  he  rested 

one  knee  upon  his  chair,  presenting  the 
sole  of  his  boot  to  the  inspection  of 
the  attentive   elders  behind  him  : 
sometimes  he  leaned 
heavily    over    the 
railing.    His  one 
characteristic 
was  the  most 
intense    ear- 
nestness. 

After  the 
benediction, 


s>K.  Mr.     Spurgeon    retired 

into  a  little  audience- 
room,  whither  his  elders 
conducted  such  persons  as  were  favored  with  a  few  moments  of  private 
conversation  with  him.  His  manner  was  extremely  simple  and  cordial ; 
and  one  quite  forgot  the  plainness  of  his  features,  seeing  them  lighted 
up  with  so  much  kindliness  and  interest.  His  day  was  not  yet  half 
over.  He  was  to  administer  the  Lord's  Supper  in  the  afternoon,  to 
such  people  from  a  distance  as  could  not  come  in  the  evening  ;  and, 
in  the  evening,  he  was  to  preach  again,  and  celebrate  again  the  Supper 
of  the  Lord. 


246  CHARLES  H.   SPURGE  ON. 

At  fifty  Mr.  Spurgeon  is  a  very  vigorous-looking  man,  from  whom 
we  may  hope  for  many  more  years  of  active  work.  His  grandfather, 
James  Spurgeon,  born  in  1776,  preached  the  gospel  until  the  very  end 
of  his  life,  and  died  at  the  age  of  eighty-seven.  His  father  is  also  a 
minister,  and  resigned  in  1876  the  pastorate  of  the  nonconformist 
church  in  Islington.  Mr.  Charles  Spurgeon  himself  has  been  one  of 
the  hardest-working  men  of  whom  I  have  ever  heard.  For  more 
than  twenty-two  years  he  has  had  a  new  sermon  printed  every  week, 
and  he  has  often  preached  twelve  times  in  a  week. 

Since  1865  he  has  been  at  the  head  of  a  monthly  magazine,  en- 
titled, "The  Sword  and  the  Trowel,"  which  has  a  circulation  of  some 
fifteen  thousand  copies  monthly.  In  the  preface  to  the  third  volume 
of  this  magazine,  the  editor  says  that  its  publication  "  led  to  the  found- 
ing of  the  Orphanage,  and  was  the  foster  parent  of  the  College  and 
the  Colportage."  From  the  college,  of  which  Mr.  Spurgeon  is  the 
head,  nearly  four  hundred  trained  men  have  already  gone  forth  to  enter 
the  ministry  of  the  church. 

In  September,  1866,  Mr.  Spurgeon  received  a  letter  from  a  lady, 
offering  to  place  at  his  command  the  sum  of  twenty  thousand  pounds 
($100,000)  for  the  purpose  of  founding  an  orphanage  for  fatherless 
boys.  This  lady  was  Mrs.  Hillyard,  the  widow  of  an  English  clergy- 
man, who  had  left  the  Church  of  England,  and  joined  the  Baptists. 
From  this  generous  beginning  has  grown  the  Stockwell  Orphanage. 
Two  hundred  and  fifty  boys  can  be  accommodated  here ;  and  they  are 
received,  I  am  happy  to  say,  without  reference  to  denominational  claims. 
It  is  enough  that  they  should  be  fatherless  children,  between  the  ages 
of  six  and  ten. 

An  orphanage  which  will  accommodate  an  equal  number  of  girls  is 
already  commenced.  It  would  be  hardly  possible  to  overrate  the  good 
which  has  been  accomplished  under  Mr.  Spurgeon's  ministry.  May  he 
live  long  to  carry  out  the  noble  plans  which  spring  from  his  busy  brain 
and  helpful  heart ! 

There  was  one,  at  least,  of  his  thousands  of  hearers,  on  that  4th 
of  July,  1880,  who  will  carry  into  far-off  scenes  the  memory  of  that 
mighty  congregation  of  earnest  souls,  and  the  sound  of  that  mellow, 
far-reaching  voice,  pleading  with  sinful  men  to  drink  of  the  Fountain 
of  Living  Waters,  and  be  athirst  no  more. 


WILLIAM  MACREADY, 

TRAGEDIAN. 

By    JAMES    PARTON. 

GNE  hundred  years  ago,  before  the  invention  of  railroads  had 
lessened  the  importance  of  provincial  towns,  almost  every  place 
in  England  of  a  few  thousand  inhabitants  had  its  own  little  theatre. 
And  very  little  it  usually  was,  with  a  pit  that  would  hold  fifty  persons, 
boxes  into  which  one  hundred  could  be  squeezed,  and  a  gallery  from 
which  fifty  noisy  men  and  boys  could  get  a  sight  of  the  stage.  Several 
of  these  theatres  were  usually  let  to  one  manager,  who  would  take  his 
company  from  one  to  another,  and,  by  occasionally  running  two  at  once, 
would  manage  to  keep  his  actors  employed  the  year  round,  with  some 
profit  to  himself.  As  a  good  theatre  is  an  extremely  expensive  insti- 
tution, it  was  only  in  this  way  that  a  city  of  ten  thousand  inhabitants 
could  ever  enjoy  theatrical  entertainments  of  respectable  quality. 

The  lessee  and  manager  of  a  circuit  of  theatres  in  the  North  of 
England,  at  the  close  of  the  last  century,  was  William  Macready,  father 
of  the  distinguished  tragedian,  whose  name  is  familiar  to  most  readers, 
and  whose  performances  are  fresh  in  the  recollection  of  many.  His 
father  was  an  actor  of  the  old  school,  very  stagey,  a  slave  to  tradition, 
—  one  of  those  positive  old  gentlemen  who  look  back  with  veneration 
upon  the  actors  of  their  youth,  and  speak  slightingly  of  those  of  to- 
day. As  a  man,  he  was  passionate,  obstinate,  and  tyrannical,  having 
inherited  from  his  Irish  ancestors  much  of  their  fiery  spirit ;  but,  at 
the  same  time,  he  was  a  person  of  good  principles  and  excellent  inten- 
tions, who  did  his  best  in  his  vocation,  paid  his  debts,  and  kept  his 
word.  The  mother  of  the  tragedian  was  one  of  the  kindest,  gentlest, 
and  tenderest  of  women,  who  loved  her  children  devotedly,  and  pre- 
served for  them  a  home  to  which  they  ever  returned  with  gladness. 

247 


248  William  m acre  ad  y. 

The  boy  who  became  the  tragedian,  Macready,  inherited  the  qual- 
ities of  both  his  parents.  Like  his  father,  he  was  passionate,  obstinate, 
and  self-willed  ;  like  his  mother,  he  was  affectionate,  generous,  and 
sympathetic ;  and  the  union  of  these  traits,  when  time  had  given  him 
some  degree  of  self-control,  made  a  character  that  was,  upon  the  whole, 
highly  estimable. 

How  abominably  children  were  treated  seventy-five  years  ago ! 
As  soon  as  this  boy  was  three  or  four  years  old,  he  was  carried  to 
school  to  be  "got  out  of  the  way,"  and  thus  was  thrown  among  a 
crowd  of  unruly  children  older  than  himself,  and  wholly  unsuited  to  be 
the  companions  of  an  innocent  baby.  When  he  was  an  old  man,  he 
used  to  reflect,  as  he  said,  "with  sorrow  deep  and  stern,"  upon  the 
evil  influences  to  which  he  was  then  subjected  ;  and  he  was  filled  with 
"penitential  gratitude"  for  his  escape  from  the  depravity  of  which,  as 
a  mere  child,  he  was  the  daily  witness.  At  the  boarding-schools,  too, 
which  he  afterward  attended,  the  food  was  not  merely  inferior,  but  dis- 
gusting. The  only  pleasing  recollections  of  his  childhood  were  of  the 
holidays,  when  his  mother  welcomed  him  home  with  tears  of  joy. 
People  then  seemed  to  think  that  to  treat  children  in  that  harsh  and 
cruel  manner  was  the  best  way  to  prepare  them  for  the  troubles  of 
their  future  life.  His  father,  who  had  probably  himself  been  treated 
worse  in  his  own  childhood,  was,  no  doubt,  fully  of  this  opinion,  and 
appears  never  to  have  given  a  thought  to  the  circumstances  which  made 
bitter  the  days  of  his  offspring. 

From  Rugby  school,  where  he  received  the  important  part  of  his 
education,  he  was  summoned,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  to  assist  his  father, 
who  had  fallen  into  pecuniary  difficulties.  He  never  liked  the  profes- 
sion of  an  actor,  even  in  the  day  of  his  brilliant  success  ;  but,  finding 
it  necessary  to  go  upon  the  stage,  he  made  a  very  successful  first 
appearance  at  one  of  his  father's  theatres  in  the  character  of  Romeo. 
Even  his  father  was  satisfied  with  his  performance,  and,  though  he 
avoided  giving  him  much  positive  encouragement,  had  high  hopes  of 
his  future  distinction.  The  young  man,  however,  was  not  so  sanguine  ; 
and  he  devoted  himself  to  the  study  of  his  calling  with  a  resolute 
assiduity,  which  knew  no  relaxation  during  the  forty  years  of  his  pro- 
fessional life. 

Secret  of  success  ?  The  grand  secret  is,  that  the  successful  man 
takes  one  hundred  times  the  trouble  that  men  generally  do.  Mark  the 
case  of  Macready.  His  having  been  born  and  brought  up  on  the  stage 
was  equal  of  itself  to  five  years'  practice  ;  and,  besides  that,  he  pos- 


WILLIAM  M ACRE  AD  Y.  249 

sessed  great  talent,  and  uncommon  physical  powers.  Being  the  man- 
ager's son,  he  could  have  his  choice  of  parts  ;  and,  from  the  first,  he 
was  a  favorite  with  his  public,  who  rewarded  his  juvenile  efforts  with 
indulgent  applause.  Yet,  how  he  worked!  Besides  taking  infinite 
pains  with  his  daily  and  nightly  tasks,  he  used  to  seek  opportunities  of 
laborious  private  practice. 

"I  used,"  he  says,  "to  get  the  key  of  the  theatre,  lock  myself  in, 
and  pace  the  stage  in  every  direction,  to  give  myself  ease,  and  become 
familiar  in  my  deportment  with  exits  and  entrances,  and  with  every 
variety  of  gesture  and  attitude.  My  characters  were  all  acted  over 
and  over,  and  speeches  recited,  till,  tired  out,  I  was  glad  to  breathe  the 
fresh  air  again.     This  was  for  several  years  a  custom  with  me." 

Spending  his  summer  vacation  by  the  seaside,  he  used  to  ramble 
along  the  shore,  meditating  on  the  characters  he  had  acted,  and  de- 
claiming, like  Demosthenes,  amid  the  roar  of  the  waves.  He  did  not 
need  any  encouragement  to  do  this  ;  but  he  received  a  strong  admoni- 
tion on  the  point  after  performing  with  the  great  Mrs.  Siddons,  whose 
words  he  never  forgot. 

"Study,  study,  study,"  said  she;  "and  do  not  marry  till  you  are 
thirty.  I  remember  what  it  was  to  be  obliged  to  study  at  nearly  your 
age  with  a  young  family  about  me.  Beware  of  that.  Keep  your 
mind  on  your  art.  Do  not  remit  your  study,  and  you  are  certain  to 
succeed." 

He  never  ceased  to  act  in  the  spirit  of  this  advice ;  and  he  made  it 
a  point  to  do  his  very  best  every  time  he  performed,  whether  the  house 
was  crowded  or  empty.  Indeed,  he  took  particular  pains  to  make 
profit  out  of  a  bad  house  ;  and,  if  there  were  but  fifty  people  present, 
he  would  use  the  opportunity  as  a  lesson  in  acting,  or  a  dress  rehearsal. 
He  used  to  call  it  "acting  to  himself,"  regarding  the  audience  merely 
in  the  light  of  a  green-room  looking-glass.  Perhaps  there  is  no  art 
practised  among  civilized  men  which  demands  such  constant,  laborious, 
Jieroic  practice  as  that  of  the  actor. 

"The  player,"  he  remarks  in  his  diary,  "by  dint  of  repeated  efforts, 
must  perfect  himself  in  tones,  attitudes,  looks,  of  which  he  can  only 
learn  the  effect  under  the  nervous  excitement  of  experimenting  their 
power  on  the  uncertain  sympathies  of  an  heterogeneous  assembly." 

He  believed,  with  Talma,  that  there  is  only  "one  best  way"  of 
doing  a  thing,  and  that  the  business  of  an  artist  is  to  discover  that  one 
way.  Without  having  read  the  well-known  advice  of  Goethe  on  the 
subject,  he  adopted  the  plan  of  fully  and  earnestly  acting  his  part  at 


250  WILLIAM  MACREADY. 

rehearsal ;  and  he  used  to  require  the  same  of  the  young  actors  whom 
he  trained.  This  was  exceedingly  difficult,  for  nothing  is  so  embar- 
rassing as  to  act  when  there  is  no  audience  present.  A  young  actor 
would  say  to  him,  — 

"Sir,  I  never  can  act  at  rehearsal,  but  I  will  do  it  at  night." 

To  this,  Macready  would  reply,  — 

"  Sir,  if  you  cannot  do  it  in  the  morning,  you  cannot  do  it  at 
night." 

Nor  did  he  confine  his  studies  to  the  walls  of  the  theatre.  Though 
one  of  the  most  sensitive  of  men  to  the  sight  of  suffering,  and  espe- 
cially to  mental  suffering,  he  braced  up  his  nerves  to  visit  a  lunatic- 
asylum,  and  succeeded  in  going  through  two  of  the  wards  ;  but,  as  the 
superintendent  was  about  to  open  the  third,  his  resolution  gave  way, 
and  he  was  obliged  to  retire.  As  long  as  he  remained  on  the  stage,  he 
never  ceased  to  derive  profit  from  that  day's  painful  experience.  He 
was  an  actor  of  renown,  and  in  middle  life,  when  he  undertook  the 
part  of  Coriolanus  ;  but  he  did  not  disdain  to  take  lessons  of  a  sculptor 
in  antique  attitudes,  as  well  as  in  wearing  the  toga,  and  acquiring  the 
stately  walk  supposed  to  be  necessary  to  the  delineation  of  the  patrician 
general  of  imperial  Rome. 

Notwithstanding  these  efforts,  he  made  no  great  bounds  in  his 
profession,  but  only  steady  progress  from  the  beginning  to  the  end. 
Every  step  was  gained  by  hard  work,  and  a  great  deal  of  it. 

With  similar  determination  he  endeavored  to  conquer  the  violent 
temper  which  he  had  inherited  from  his  father,  though  in  this  his 
success  was  by  no  means  triumphant ;  and  all  his  life  he  was  liable  to 
an  occasional  outbreak,  invariably  followed  by  the  deepest  contrition. 
The  manager,  Bunn,  once  required  him  to  omit  the  last  two  acts  of 
Richard  III.,  —  a  marked  slight  to  an  actor  of  rank,  according  to  the 
usages  of  the  stage.  He  went  through  the  performance  as  well  as  he 
could  ;  but,  unfortunately,  as  he  passed  the  door  of  the  manager's 
room,  he  opened  it,  and  saw  the  offending  potentate.  He  could  not 
contain  himself. 

"  You  scoundrel  !  "  he  cried,  "  how  dare  you  use  me  in  this 
manner  ? " 

Upon  saying  this,  he  struck  the  manager  a  back-handed  slap  across 
the  face,  which  he  followed  by  some  wild  blows  with  his  fist.  Bunn 
got  one  of  Macready's  fingers  into  his  mouth,  and  bit  it,  but  let  go  in 
order  to  cry  "  Murder  !  "  People  came  running  in,  and  separated  the 
combatants.       Macready,   though    he    had    endured   humiliation    upon 


WILLIAM  MACREADY.  251 

humiliation  from  the  manager  for  six  years,  was  plunged  into  the  very 
depths  of  remorse  at  losing  his  self-command  at  last.  He  wrote  in 
his  diary,  — 

"  Words  cannot  express  the  contrition  I  feel,  the  shame  I  endure.  ...  I  have 
committed  a  great  error.  God  Almighty  forgive  me  my  forgetfulness  of  the  prin- 
ciples I  have  laid  down  for  myself.  ...  It  makes  me  sick  to  think  of  it.  .  .  .  Shall 
I  ever  know  peace  of  heart  again  ?  .  .  .  I  close  my  eyes  with  the  hated  idea,  and  it 
awakens  with  me  in  the  earliest  morning." 

A  few  nights  after,  when  he  appeared  at  another  theatre,  although 
the  audience  received  him  with  acclamations,  showing  the  most  lively 
sympathy  with  him  in  the  quarrel,  he  publicly  confessed  his  error,  and 
declared  he  should  never  cease  to  feel  the  most  poignant  self-reproach 
and  regret.  When  Bunn  brought  a  suit  for  damages,  he  instructed 
his  lawyer  to  make  no  defence ;  and  he  promptly  paid  the  costs  and 
damages  awarded,  —  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds. 

Twice  in  his  life  he  visited  the  United  States,  a  country  for  which 
he  cherished  a  fond  admiration  from  youth  to  old  age.  He  always 
remembered  the  4th  of  July,  and  sometimes  wrote  something  about  it 
in  his  diary.  As  long  ago  as  1836,  he  made  this  entry,  which  well 
illustrates  the  spirit  of  the  man  :  — 

"July  the  4th.  To-day  is  the  anniversary  of  the  American  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence. I,  as  one  of  the  great  family  of  mankind  that  have  profited  by  that  event, 
thank  God  for  it.  How  much  has  the  great  cause  of  liberty  and  improvement  been 
advanced  by  it !  " 

At  the  age  of  fifty-eight  he  retired  from  the  stage  with  a  modest 
competence  most  nobly  earned,  and  spent  the  long  evening  of  his  days 
as  a  benevolent  country  gentleman,  maintaining,  for  many  years,  a 
large  evening-school  for  laborers  and  their  children,  in  which  he  taught 
personally  until  the  infirmities  of  old  age  prevented.  He  died  in  1873, 
aged  eighty. 


ANECDOTES   OF   JENNY   LIND. 


ANONYMOUS. 

MANY  years  ago,  there  lived  in  the  Swedish  city  of  Stockholm 
a  worthy  couple  by  the  name  of  Lind.  The  husband  was  a 
teacher  of  languages,  and  the  wife  kept  a  small  day-school  for  children. 
On  the  6th  of  October,  1821,  a  daughter  was  born  to  them,  whom 
they  named  Jenny.  As  she  developed  into  girlhood,  she  was  neither 
healthy  nor  pretty,  but  possessed  a  marvellous  voice,  which  was  her 
only  attraction. 

It  is  said  that  she  would  wander  about  the  streets  of  Stockholm, 
singing  to  herself,  quite  heedless  of  the  many  passers-by,  who  paused 
a  moment  to  send  after  the  small  singer  a  look  of  pleased  surprise. 
She  could  imitate  the  notes  of  the  birds,  the  sound  of  the  rising  and 
falling  tide,  and  the  tinkling  ripple  of  the  water  in  the  fountains.  At 
length  the  pure,  silvery  tones  of  the  little  songstress  found  their  way 
to  the  heart  of  a  benevolent  woman,  who  took  the  timid,  shrinking 
Jenny  to  the  greatest  music-master  of  Stockholm.  The  old  man,  upon 
hearing  her  sing,  was  enraptured  ;  and  she  was  at  once  admitted  to  the 
school  of  the  opera  for  study.  Now  followed  many  months  of  weary 
training ;  but  the  child  was  always  patient,  always  willing,  and  labored 
day  and  night  to  become  a  great  singer. 

She  sang  at  the  Opera  of  Stockholm  until  she  was  eighteen,  and 
was  the  favorite  of  the  Swedish  public.  But  stories  reached  her  of 
the  great  music-masters  of  Paris,  and  she  grew  restless ;  and  her  one 
desire  was  to  become  a  pupil  of  the  famous  Garcia,  who  had  trained 
so  many  celebrated  singers.  So,  for  this  large,  strange,  glittering  city, 
the  young  girl  set  out  alone,  with  a  will  to  conquer  all  things  ;  and 
success  came  to  her  after  four  years  of  persistent  labor,  clouded  by 
months  of  discouragement,  hours  of  bitter  tears,  loneliness,  and  sor- 
row.    Her  voice  had    gained  great  strength.     Her  notes  were  clear, 


ANECDOTES   OF  JENNY  LIND. 


253 


beautiful,  and  fresh.     She   had  become  mistress  of   her  art,  and  the 
people  of  Stockholm  again  received  her  rapturously. 

And  now  her  fame  went  abroad,  and  other  lands  were  waiting  to 
listen.  So  out  into  the  great  world  she  went,  visiting  and  singing  in 
all   the   great    cities,  —  Dresden,  Vienna,  Berlin,  and    London.      Her 


Jenny   Lind. 


name  became  a  household  word.     Palace-doors  were  thrown  open  to 
her.     Kings,  queens,  and  princesses  took  her  by  the  hand. 

Then  came  the  welcome  news  that  the  Swedish  nightingale  was 
coming  to  America.  We  had  heard  of  her  sweet,  beautiful  life,  of  her 
many  deeds  of  charity,  of  her  tenderness  toward  all  humanity  ;  and 
there  is  no  key  that  unlocks  the  way  to  all  hearts  so  surely  as  a  noble 
life.     How  well  I  remember  the  day  of  her  arrival  in  New  York !     It 


254  ANECDOTES   OF  JENNY  LIND. 

was  a  beautiful  Sunday  morning  in  the  early  part  of  September.  After 
church  I  strolled  down  to  the  dock  at  the  foot  of  Canal  Street,  where 
thousands  of  excited  people  —  men,  women,  and  children  —  were  wait- 
ing for  the  steamer  to  approach  that  was  to  bring  the  songstress  to 
our  shores.  The  rigging  and  the  masts  of  vessels  lying  at  the  dock 
swarmed  with  eager  watchers.  A  superb  bower  of  green  trees,  over 
which  waved  the  American  flag,  was  placed  upon  the  wharf.  About 
one  o'clock  the  vessel  came  to  her  moorings  ;  and,  amid  the  shouts  and 
cheers,  Miss  Lind  stepped  ashore,  and  was  driven  through  the  crowded 
streets  to  her  hotel,  —  the  Irving  House. 

I  happened  to  be  stopping  at  this  hotel  at  the  time,  and  had  many 
opportunities  of  seeing  the  fair  singer  as  she  came  in  and  went  out, 
or  slowly  paced  the  halls  and  corridors  with  some  friend,  telling,  in  her 
happy,  childish  way,  of  some  pleasant  adventure  ;  or  talking  of  her 
art,  —  which  was  always  to  her  a  sacred  thing,  —  her  face  beaming, 
and  brightening  with  earnestness  as  she  referred  to  it. 

The  reception  of  Jenny  Lind  at  Castle  Garden,  on  the  night  of  her 
first  appearance,  has  probably  never  been  equalled  by  the  reception  of 
any  other  singer.  The  entire  audience  arose  to  their  feet  as  the  fair 
girl,  dressed  simply  in  white,  stepped  timidly  forth,  and  stood  before 
the  largest  gathering  of  people  that  had  ever  welcomed  her  in  any 
land.  A  moment's  pause,  a  slight  fluttering  in  the  first  notes,  and 
then  full,  clear,  deliciously  sweet,  came  the  "Casta  Diva"  from  Ros- 
sini's famous  opera.  The  vast  audience  sat  silent  and  breathless  until 
the  end.  Then  came  a  very  thunder  of  applause,  that  sent  an  echo 
far  out  into  the  night,  and  across  the  dark  waters  of  the  harbor. 

It  was  a  golden  harvest  for  Jenny  Lind.  The  sum  of  ten  thousand 
dollars  was  placed  in  her  hand  as  her  part  of  the  proceeds  from  the 
first  concert  given  in  America.  She  immediately  resolved  to  give 
every  dollar  of  it  to  charity  ;  and,  sending  for  the  mayor  of  New  York, 
she  advised  with  him  in  selecting  the  various  institutions  among  which 
she  wished  the  amount  distributed. 

Her  reputation  for  generosity  became  so  well  known,  that  every- 
where her  doors  were  beset  by  people  seeking  relief.  Few  ever  went 
away  empty-handed,  and  no  one  knows  the  extent  of  her  benevolence. 
One  night,  while  Jenny  Lind  was  singing  in  Boston,  a  shabbily  dressed 
sewing-girl  approached  the  box-office,  saying,  as  she  laid  down  three 
dollars  for  a  ticket,  — 

"  Here  goes  half  a  month's  earnings,  but  I  want  so  much  to  hear 
Jenny  Lind  !  " 


ANE  CD  OTES   OF  JENNY  LIND.  255 

The  singer's  secretary  happened  to  overhear  the  remark,  and  a  few- 
moments  afterwards  he  laughingly  related  it  to  her. 

"Would  you  know  that  girl  again?"  she  asked.  He  assured  her 
that  he  would  ;  and  she  placed  a  twenty-dollar  gold-piece  in  his  hand, 
saying,  "  Poor  girl !  give  her  that  with  my  best  wishes." 

She  would  leave  her  hotel,  drawn  away  to  visit  some  family  who 
had  appealed  to  her  benevolence,  and  pass  down  some  dark,  uncleanly 
street  to  the  wretched  tenement  in  which  the  family  dwelt.  When 
cautioned  lest  people  should  take  undue  advantage  of  her  bounty,  she 
would  reply,  — 

"  Never  mind.  If  I  relieve  ten,  and  one  is  worthy,  I  am  satis- 
fied." 

I  remember  a  hundred  pleasant  stories  told  about  her  at  the  time. 
During  her  ten  days'  stay  in  Charleston,  S.C.,  being  greatly  worn  with 
excitement,  she  declined  seeing  visitors  ;  and  this,  of  course,  disap- 
pointed many  persons  who  wished  to  see  her.  One  romantic  young 
lady,  the  daughter  of  a  very  wealthy  planter,  was  so  determined  to  see 
her  in  private,  that  she  paid  one  of  the  servants  to  let  her  put  on  a 
cap  and  white  apron,  and  carry  in  the  tray  with  Miss  Lind's  tea. 
When  the  singer  heard  of  this,  and  was  urged  to  receive  one  who  had 
so  great  an  admiration  for  her,  she  replied,  — 

"  It  is  not  admiration  :  it  is  only  curiosity,  and  I  will  not  encourage 
such  folly." 

While  in  Havana,  she  became  interested  in  a  poor  little  Italian  boy, 
called  Vivalla.  He  was  in  great  distress,  having  lost,  by  paralysis,  the 
use  of  his  limbs  on  one  side  of  his  body,  and  he  was  thus  unable  to 
earn  a  living  ;  although  he  kept  a  performing-dog,  which  turned  a 
spinning-wheel,  and  did  other  curious  tricks.  Hearing  his  story,  she 
expressed  great  sympathy,  and  said  that  something  must  be  given  him 
from  the  "benefit"  which  she  was  about  to  receive.  Accordingly  five 
hundred  dollars  were  appropriated  for  his  use,  and  arrangements  were 
made  for  his  return  to  friends  in  Italy.  A  few  days  afterwards,  he 
called  at  her  house,  during  her  absence,  with  a  basket  of  fruit. 

"  God  bless  her,  I  am  so  happy !  She  is  such  a  good  lady  !  "  he 
kept  repeating  to  the  friend  who  admitted  him.  "  I  should  so  much 
like  to  have  her  see  my  dog  turn  a  wheel.  He  can  do  it  very  well. 
He  can  spin  too.     Would  she  care  to  see  it,  do  you  think  ?" 

He  was  told  that  Miss  Lind  had  little  time  to  give  to  strangers, 
and  that  she  never  received  thanks  for  her  gifts. 

Upon  her  return,  the  fruit  was  handed  to  her,  and  his  request  to 


256  ANECDOTES   OF  JENNY  LIND. 

show  her  how  his  dog  could  turn  a  spinning-wheel  was  laughingly- 
repeated. 

"  Poor  boy  !  do  let  him  come.  It  is  all  the  kind  creature  can  do  for 
me.  Certainly,  we  will  have  him  here  with  his  dog.  It  will  make  us 
both  happy,"  exclaimed  the  tender-hearted  singer,  with  eyes  full  of 
tears. 

So  Vivalla  was  told  that  Jenny  Lind  would  like  to  see  his  dog  per- 
form the  very  next  day  at  four  o'clock  precisely.  Full  half  an  hour 
before  the  time  appointed,  she  took  her  seat  at  the  window  to  watch 
for  the  Italian  and  his  dog  ;  and,  when  she  saw  him  coming  punctual 
to  the  minute,  she  ran  down-stairs  like  a  child,  and  opened  the  door 
for  him  herself.  Motioning  the  servant  away,  she  took  the  little  wheel 
in  her  arms,  saying,  — 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  come  with  your  dog.  Follow  me.  I 
will  carry  the  wheel." 

In  her  beautiful  parlors  the  tender  woman,  sought  by  the  wealthy 
and  the  great,  devoted  herself  to  the  delighted  Italian,  getting  down 
upon  her  knees  to  pet  his  dog,  playing  and  singing  to  him,  asking 
after  his  friends  in  Italy,  and  finally  carrying  his  wheel  again  to  the 
door  when  the  lad  departed. 

It  does  the  heart  good  to  hear  of  such  acts.  It  gives  us  new  faith 
that  the  world  cannot  spoil,  with  all  its  flattery  and  temptation,  a 
truly  noble  life.  Great  as  an  artist,  Jenny  Lind  was  still  greater  in 
her  pure,  human  character. 

It  is  said  that  there  is  as  good  music  in  the  world  to-day  as  was 
ever  heard ;  that  as  sweet  songs  are  sung  by  other  singers  as  any  that 
my  Swedish  nightingale  poured  out  to  her  myriads  of  spell-bound  lis- 
teners more  than  thirty  years  ago.  It  may  be  so,  but  I  do  not  hear 
them.  To  me  her  wonderful  voice  seems  in  memory  more  like  the 
music  that  makes  the  harmonies  of  a  brighter  and  better  world  than 
the  music  that  enchants  the  world  to-day. 


A  GRANDSON  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


By    WILL    CARLETON. 

ON  a  soft  summer  afternoon,  some  years  ago,  I  arrived  at  the 
famous  town  of  Dumfries,  in  Scotland.  The  day  was  leisurely 
coming  to  a  close,  and  quiet  had  settled  upon  the  quaint  old  city. 
Peace  was  everywhere,  —  in  the  tranquil,  droning  streets,  in  the  dis- 
tant, dreamy  hills,  in  the  languid  blue  sky.  There  was  a  poetic  calm 
upon  every  thing,  which  corresponded  well  with  the  object  of  my 
visit. 

I  had  come  to  Dumfries  because  it  was  for  some  time  the  home  of 
Robert  Burns,  because  here  he  had  found  his  death-bed,  and  here  lay 
buried.  I  had  been  at  Ayr,  and  stood  in  the  small  cottage  where  the 
baby-poet  was  tossed  up  and  down,  like  an  ordinary  child,  by  his  thrifty, 
loving  mother,  who  little  dreamed  that  this  tiny,  nervous,  weird-eyed 
creature  was  to  make  her  name  remembered  as  long  as  mothers  exist. 

I  had  wandered  by  the  "banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon  ; "  had 
stood  upon  the  bridge  where  Tarn  O'Shanter's  mare,  Meg,  lost  her 
famous  gray  tail;  had  plucked  some  ivy  from  "Kirk  Alloway,"  whose 
wonderful  witch-dance  played  havoc  with  me  when  a  boy ;  had  mused 
again  and  again  over  the  localities  where  was  first  kindled  this  flame 
of  human  fire,  so  appropriately  named  "  Burns."  Now  I  wanted  to 
see  where  he  lived  his  later  manhood  years,  where  he  died,  and  was 
buried. 

After  visiting  the  dreary  house  from  which  his  great  soul  took 
flight,  I  went  to  the  Dumfries  cemetery,  and  found  his  tomb,  with  its 
quaint  monument  and  quainter  surroundings.  As  I  was  coming  away, 
the  keeper  of  the  gates — a  broad-faced,  cheery  Scotch  girl,  with  an 
expression  of  countenance  as  if  she  felt  that  the  whole  cemetery  was 
a  most  capital  joke  —  accosted  me  civilly,  but  with  a  degree  of  freedom, 

and  seemed  inclined  for  a  bit  of  gossip. 

257 


*5< 


A    GRANDSON  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


"  I  ken  you  will  be  an  American,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  shrewd 
glance. 

"  I  am  an  American  now,  my  dear,"  I  replied.  "  Always  have  been, 
and  always  shall  be." 

"  Oh !  I  mean,  of  course,  that  you  are  now,"  she  replied,  laughing. 
"When  we  Scotch  say  'you  will  be,'  or  'you  maun  be,'  we  mean  'you 
probably  are.'  And  no  Yank  —  excuse  me,  sir,  no  American  —  that 
ever  comes  this  way,  can  see  enough  or  hear  enough  aboot  Robert 
Burns.  But  not  many  of  them  ken  that  in  yon  building  across  the 
way  is  his  ain  living  grandson,  who  looks  as  mickle  like  he  did  a?  ane 
gooseberry  to  anither." 

"  Yon  building  across  the  way  "  proved  to  be  a  hospital,  —  in  fact, 
a  kind  of  more  genteel  poorhouse,  —  established  by  some  wealthy  men 
of  the  town.  To  this  institution  poor  people  were  admitted,  who  by 
birth,  talents,  or  other  cause,  were  considered  too  good  for  the  com- 
mon work-house.  And  here  I  found  him, — a  grandson  of  Robert 
Burns,  a  man  of  the  same  given  name,  a  man  whose  father  was  of  the 
same  given  name,  and,  in  truth,  resembling  wonderfully  the  best  pic- 
tures of  the  poet. 

He  was  a  stout,  soldierly-looking  old  man,  with  a  considerable  ap- 
pearance of  neatness  peeping  out  through  all  his  poverty.  His  face 
was  cleanly  shaven,  except  that  he  wore  closely  trimmed  side-whiskers  : 
his  eyes  were  large  and  bright,  and  his  manners  and  language  those  of 
a  gentleman.  Throughout  the  interview,  he  maintained  what  might 
be  called  a  nervous,  restless  sort  of  dignity,  although  evidently  feeling 
the  awkwardness  of  his  position ;  for  few  really  sensitive  and  proud 
people  like  to  be  exhibited  as  some  distinguished  person's  descendant, 
unless  they  themselves  have  done  something  to  add  to  the  family 
renown. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  he  exclaimed,  cordially  shaking  my  hand, 
"but  sorry  that  you  find  me  here.  You  visit  me,  I  know,  not  for  my- 
self, but  for  my  illustrious  grandfather.  It  is  no  credit  of  mine  that 
I  am  his  descendant.  I  could  not  help  it ;  although,  if  I  had  known 
beforehand  that  it  was  intended  to  be  so,  I  should  probably  have  blun- 
dered myself  out  of  the  honor.  I  have  none  of  the  talent  of  my 
distinguished  ancestor.  But  I  have  some  of  his  faults,  and  I  am 
sorry  to  say  that  I  like  a  dram  as  well  as  he  ever  did.  That  is  why  I 
am  here. 

"My  father,  Robert  Burns,  jun.,  had  a  good  position  connected 
with  the  government  in  London,  and  gave  me  all  the  money  I  wanted 


A    GRANDSON   OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  259 

to  spend.  He  was  too  good  to  me.  I  had  an  over-easy  time  through 
my  boyhood.  I  was  a  fast  young  man,  and  came  to  be  a  very  wild 
one.  I  steadied  down  in  some  degree  after  coming  to  be  a  matured 
man,  but  the  old  habits  clung  to  me.  I  could  not  shake  them  off,  and 
they  rode  me  into  ruin.  For  a  time  I  tried  teaching  a  select  school. 
This  went  very  well  at  first,  but  the  old  habits  would  have  their  way. 
The  pupils  left  one  by  one,  my  wife  died,  my  son  Robert  went  to  Eng- 
land, and  —  I  am  here." 

A  shadow,  as  if  formed  by  some  hidden  tear,  dimmed  the  bright- 
ness of  the  old  man's  eyes  for  a  moment,  as  he  spoke  of  the  death  of 
his  wife  and  of  his  son  ;  but  he  brushed  the  tear  away,  even  before  it 
became  visible,  and  went  on,  — 

"  But,  of  course,  you  want  me  to  talk  of  my  grandfather,  rather 
than  myself.  Well,  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know  about  him.  My  father 
himself  was  only  eleven  years  old  when  the  poet  died  ;  but  I  know 
much  concerning  him,  and  will  tell  you  all  I  can." 

After  which  he  gave  several  interesting  incidents  connected  with 
the  poet's  life,  most  of  which  are  in  the  printed  books.  He  told  his 
stories  well,  had  a  good  command  of  language,  and  that  magnetism  of 
manner  which  makes  friends  the  world  over.  But,  considering  that  I 
had  read  most  of  these  things  he  was  saying,  the  conversation  was  not 
so  interesting  as  the  man  himself.  It  was  a  privilege  to  watch  the 
kindling  of  his  eye  ;  to  mark  his  quick  and  fiery  gestures  ;  to  reflect 
that  here  was  a  genuine  Robert  Burns,  in  whom  flowed  some  of  the 
great  poet's  own  blood,  and  who,  perhaps,  inherited  a  part  of  his  man- 
ner and  tone,  as  he  certainly  did  his  face. 

I  could  almost  fancy  that  the  poetic  hero  of  my  boy-days  had  come 
back  for  an  hour  into  this  old  town  of  Dumfries,  had  met  me  in  some 
rude  inn,  and  was  modestly  telling  his  own  trials  and  triumphs  as  those 
of  another  person.  But,  at  last,  the  old  man  came  to  speak  of  the 
squalor  and  wretchedness  that  marked  the  last  months  of  the  poet's 
life,  —  a  state  of  which  his  own  must  often  have  reminded  him.  It 
was  then  that  he  burst  forth  in  a  torrent  of  eloquence  that  showed 
him  to  be  possessed  of  some  of  the  talent,  and  much  of  the  fire,  of  his 
immortal  ancestor. 

"What  makes  my  blood  to  boil,"  he  exclaimed  in  a  fierce  tone,  ris- 
ing nervously,  and  stalking  to  the  window,  "  is  to  look  out  across  the 
road,  and  see  pilgrims  from  all  parts  of  the  world  come  to  that  grave, 
and  then  to  reflect  that  the  man  whose  genius  they  are  worshipping 
died  in  a  little  mean  den  in  yonder  crooked  street,  in  mortal  terror  of 


260  A    GRANDSON  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

being  hauled  out  of  bed,  and  dragged  away  to  prison,  for  a  paltry  debt 
of  five  pounds." 

As  I  parted  with  this  interesting  acquaintance  of  an  hour,  there 
came  a  pang  of  hopeless  pity  for  this  poor  man,  who,  with  the  warning 
before  him  of  his  grandfather's  misery  and  early  death,  had  all  his 
days  followed  the  same  broad,  misery-seeking  road. 

But,  throughout  the  interview,  —  in  the  midst  of  all  his  poverty  and 
wretchedness, — there  was  a  spirit  of  independence  which  would  occa- 
sionally gleam  forth,  and  remind  one  that  "a  man's  a  man."  There 
was  something  very  refreshing  and  exhilarating  in  his  manner  to  an 
American  wanderer,  —  something  that  made  him  think  of  home. 

When  saying  good-by,  I  hesitated  whether  to  offer  a  parting  gift, 
not  knowing  if  he  would  take  it  as  a  respectfully  meant  favor,  or  as  a 
deadly  insult.  When,  at  last,  I  insinuated  it  as  delicately  as  possible 
into  his  broad  Scotch  palm,  he  paused  a  moment,  looked  at  me  with 
a  shrewd  twinkle  in  his  eye,  gradually  appropriated  the  coin,  and 
whispered,  — 

"As  a  loan,  my  boy,  as  a  loan.  I'll  pay  you  the  next  time  you 
come  over." 

Alas !  I  had  reason  afterwards  to  fear  that  my  "  loan  "  went,  before 
morning,  into  the  till  of  the  same  "  Globe  "  tavern,  which  did  so  much 
to  hasten  the  death  of  the  great  Robert  Burns. 

On  a  dreary,  rain-drenched  morning,  I  left  the  old  town  of  Dum- 
fries. The  storm  was  dismally  sweeping  through  the  streets.  Now 
and  then  a  gust  of  wind  made  that  wailing  sound  which  reminds  one 
of  the  vanished  dead.  The  sky  was  blotted  with  clouds,  as  if  it  never 
were  to  be  clear  again  :  the  distant  hills  were  all  weeping.  As  I  gazed 
from  the  railway  carriage,  my  eyes  tried  to  take  notes  of  the  sullen 
scenery ;  but  my  heart  would  think  of  nothing  but  the  dead  man  in 
the  cemetery,  and  the  living  one  across  the  way.  Not  very  long  were 
they  to  be  separated  by  this  life-traversed  street ;  for,  ere  many  months, 
the  news  was  to  come  westward  across  the  Atlantic  that  the  grandson 
of  Robert  Burns  was  dead. 


MR.    GLADSTONE. 


By  JAMES    PARTON. 

WE  must  take  care  to  say  "Mr.  Gladstone,"  in  speaking  of  the 
premier.  To  this  day,  elderly  Englishmen  talk  of  "  Mr.  Can- 
ning," "Mr.  Pitt,"  and  even  "Mr.  Fox;"  although  the  statesman  last 
named  is  more  fondly  styled  "  Charles  Fox  "  by  men  of  his  own  party. 
When  Englishmen  call  a  personage  "Mr.,"  it  is  a  way  of  intimating 
that  he  stands  above  other  titles,  and  that,  like  the  first  "  Mr.  Pitt," 
he  would  have  to  descend  to  a  lordship.  Titles,  in  fact,  are  not  of 
much  account  in  the  higher  circles  of  Europe.  For  example  :  Let 
there  be,  in  the  same  English  county,  an  untitled  squire  with  a  long 
pedigree,  and  a  duke  with  a  short  one.  The  squire  will  hold  his  head 
higher,  and  enjoy  greater  prestige,  than  the  duke.  But  "Mr.  Glad- 
stone "  would  overtop  them  both. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  how  rapidly  and  peacefully  the  old  feudal 
distinctions  die  out, — how  Bismarck  eclipses  "William;"  how  Gort- 
chakoff  looms  up  above  Alexander ;  how  Thiers,  Simon,  Gambetta, 
stand  for  France  ;  how  much  more  is  made  of  plain  Mr.  Gladstone 
than  of  the  Prince  of  Wales.  Ten  lines  a  week  in  the  London 
"Times"  dispose  of  the  Royal  Family,  but  ten  columns  are  some- 
times insufficient  to  appease  the  curiosity  of  the  British  public  with 
regard  to  William  Ewart  Gladstone.  Nevertheless,  those  royalties 
still  have  their  use ;  for,  in  all  those  old  countries,  there  are  vast 
numbers  of  people  who  can  be  influenced  only  through  their  imagina- 
tions. 

Speaking  of  designations,  he  was  not  born  to  the  name  of  Glad- 
stone. Sir  Robert  Peel,  in  a  speech  of  1819,  spoke  of  a  "Mr.  Glad- 
stones, the  great  Liverpool  merchant,"  meaning  the  father  of  the 
statesman.     But  it  seems  the  merchant  did  not  enjoy  the  final  letter 

of  his  name,  and  caused  it  to  be  legally  cut  off.      Later  in  life  he  was 

261 


262  MR.    GLADSTONE. 

made  a  baronet,  and  had,  ever  after,  the  sweet  privilege  of  writing  on 
his  cards,  "  Sir  John  Gladstone." 

In  a  speech  delivered  in  1872  to  the  boys  of  a  Liverpool  school, 
Mr.  Gladstone  said  he  saw  no  reason  why  commerce  should  not  have 
its  old  families,  giving  able  business  men  to  their  country  generation 
after  generation.  It  seemed  to  him  a  thing  to  be  regretted,  and  even 
to  be  ashamed  of,  that  families,  who  had  acquired  wealth  and  impor- 
tance through  commerce,  should  turn  their  backs  upon  it,  as  though 
it  were  something  discreditable. 

"  It  certainly  is  not  so,"  he  added,  "  with  my  brother,  or  with  me. 
His  sons  are  treading  in  his  steps  ;  and  one  of  my  sons,  I  rejoice  to 
say,  is  treading  in  the  steps  of  my  father  and  my  brother." 

And  he  might  have  gone  back  farther ;  for  he  comes  of  a  line  of 
business  men,  dealers  in  the  same  article,  grain.  Mr.  Gladstone, 
though  born  in  Liverpool,  is  of  Scotch  parentage,  both  on  his  father's 
and  his  mother's  side,  his  father's  ancestors  having  lived  for  unknown 
generations  in  the  valley  of  the  Clyde.  His  great-great-grandfather 
was  a  maltster  there  ;  and  his  great-grandfather  carried  on  the  same 
occupation  in  the  same  place,  —  the  latter  a  man  of  energy  and  local 
distinction,  who  gained  some  property,  and  became  an  elder  in  the 
Scottish  Church. 

This  Elder  Gladstone  imparted  his  energy  to  his  numerous  family 
of  five  sons  and  six  daughters.  One  of  the  sons,  Thomas,  became  a 
corn-merchant  at  Leith,  the  seaport  to  Edinburgh  ;  and  he,  too,  though 
he  had  sixteen  children  to  support,  and  twelve  to  establish  in  life, 
accumulated  property,  and  continued  the  development  of  his  family. 

John  Gladstone,  the  eldest  son  of  this  prolific  corn-merchant,  en- 
tered his  father's  business,  and,  soon  after  reaching  his  twenty-first 
birthday,  struck  into  the  path  that  has  led  to  eminence.  His  father 
sent  him  to  Liverpool  to  sell  a  cargo  of  grain  which  had  arrived  there ; 
and,  while  he  was  transacting  that  business,  he  made  such  a  favorable 
impression  upon  one  of  the  principal  grain-merchants  of  the  city,  that 
he  was  offered  a  place  in  the  house,  which  he  accepted.  From  clerk 
he  soon  became  partner  ;  and,  while  still  a  young  man,  he  saved  his 
firm  from  ruin. 

About  the  year  1795,  there  was  a  great  scarcity  of  grain  in  Europe ; 
and  this  firm  of  grain-dealers  sent  the  junior  partner,  John  Gladstone, 
to  New  York  to  buy  the  article,  chartering  twenty-four  vessels  to  sail 
after  him,  and  convey  grain  to  Europe.  On  reaching  New  York,  the 
young  merchant  discovered  that  the  crops    had    extensively  failed  in 


MR.    GLADSTONE.  263 

America  also,  and  that  no  grain  could  be  had.  The  situation  was 
alarming,  for  the  charter  of  so  many  vessels  would  have  swallowed  up 
a  great  part  of  the  capital  of  the  house.  John  Gladstone  looked  about 
him  to  find  other  produce  ;  and  he  bestirred  himself  with  such  effect, 
that  he  contrived  to  send  all  the  ships  home  with  a  cargo,  upon  which 
the  loss  was  only  trifling.  An  exploit  like  this  is,  in  the  business 
world,  what  a  dashing  attack  is  in  battle,  which,  at  a  critical  moment, 
turns  defeat  into  victory. 

In  the  course  of  twenty  years,  John  Gladstone  became  one  of  the 
principal  merchants  of  Liverpool.  He  invested  a  considerable  portion 
of  his  capital  in  sugar-plantations  in  the  West  Indies,  a  circumstance 
that  was  often  thrown  in  the  face  of  his  son  in  the  earlier  part  of  his 
public  life.  John  Gladstone  was  an  ardent  politician  on  the  Conser- 
vative side ;  his  ideal  statesman  being  George  Canning,  whose  election 
to  Parliament  from  Liverpool  he  promoted  with  all  his  influence.  All 
through  the  childhood  of  the  present  Premier  of  England,  the  name 
which  he  heard  pronounced  at  home  with  the  warmest  approval  was 
that  of  Canning,  a  man  formed  to  excite  the  enthusiastic  admiration 
of  those  who  agreed  with  him.  He  was  of  noble  and  commanding 
appearance,  with  a  voice  as  sonorous  and  powerful  as  Mr.  Gladstone's 
own  ;  and  he  had  a  vein  of  pleasantry  which  made  his  speeches  as 
delightful  as  they  were  strong  and  convincing.  In  his  politics  he 
blended  the  conservative  with  the  reforming  spirit,  as  Mr.  Gladstone 
himself  does. 

The  present  premier  was  three  years  of  age  when,  at  the  close  of 
an  exciting  election  in  Liverpool,  Mr.  Canning,  who  had  won  the  day, 
addressed  the  people  from  the  balcony  of  John  Gladstone's  house  ;  and 
to  this  day,  it  is  said,  the  name  of  Canning  has  a  kind  of  fascination 
for  the  premier.  For  his  services  in  promoting  the  prosperity  of  Liv- 
erpool, John  Gladstone  was  presented  by  his  townsmen  with  a  service 
of  plate.  Mr.  Canning  procured  for  him  a  seat  in  Parliament,  and  he 
continued  a  member  of  that  body  for  nine  years.  He  was  a  member 
of  the  House  when  his  son  entered  it,  and  had  the  pleasure  of  witness- 
ing some  of  his  early  successes  in  that  body.  In  1845  the  Peel  min- 
istry made  John  Gladstone  a  baronet,  a  title  still  enjoyed  by  his  eldest 
son,  Sir  Thomas  Gladstone. 

In  England  the  sons  of  rich  people  are  brought  up  very  much 
alike,  going  early  from  home  to  one  of  the  great  public  schools,  where 
they  remain  seven  or  eight  years,  and  thence  to  one  of  the  universities 
for  three  years.     A  period  of  foreign  travel  succeeds  ;  after  which  the 


264  MR.    GLADSTONE. 

young  favorite  of  fortune,  if  he  is  a  fool,  settles  down  to  the  agreeable 
waste  of  his  existence ;  and,  if  he  is  worthy,  to  the  service  of  his 
country.  Mr.  Gladstone  went  this  course,  —  graduating  from  Oxford 
with  its  highest  honors,  and  greatly  distinguishing  himself  there  as  a 
debater.  He  went  to  Oxford  a  Tory,  and  came  home  a  Tory.  In  an 
address  two  years  ago,  he  told  his  hearers  what  he  did  not  learn  at 
Oxford. 

"  I  trace,"  said  he,  "  in  the  education  of  Oxford  of  my  own  time, 
one  great  defect.  Perhaps  it  was  my  own  fault,  but  I  must  admit 
that  I  did  not  learn  when  at  Oxford  that  which  I  have  learned  since ; 
namely,  to  set  a  due  value  on  the  imperishable  and  the  inestimable 
principles  of  human  liberty." 

He  went  on  to  say  that  the  Tory  principle  is  "jealousy  of  liberty 
and  of  the  people  only  qualified  by  fear ;  "  while  the  policy  of  the 
Liberal  party  is,  "trust  in  the  people  only  qualified  by  prudence."  We 
notice  the  same  difference  in  the  founders  and  early  politicians  of  this 
country.  Hamilton  and  the  Federalists  were  afraid  of  the  people,  and 
thought  them  incompetent  to  govern  themselves.  Jefferson  and  the 
Republicans  trusted  the  people,  and  believed  that  they  could  govern 
themselves  a  good  deal  better  than  they  had  ever  been  governed. 

Mr.  Gladstone  was  twenty-two  years  of  age  when  he  hurried  home 
from  Italy  in  response  to  an  invitation  to  enter  Parliament  as  the 
representative  of  the  English  city  of  Newark.  Who  invited  him  ? 
Not  the  people  of  Newark,  for  they  did  not  know  there  was  such  a 
man  as  William  E.  Gladstone.  Among  the  friends  of  the  young  man 
was  the  Earl  of  Lincoln,  the  eldest  son  of  the  Duke  of  Newcastle, 
who  was  the  chief  owner  of  property  in  Newark,  and  in  the  region 
round  about.  As  things  then  were,  it  was  of  little  avail  for  any  one 
to  oppose  a  candidate  whom  this  duke  supported  ;  and  it  was  he  who 
summoned  the  traveller  from  abroad  to  contest  the  town. 

A  portrait  of  him,  as  he  then  appeared,  has  recently  been  published, 
—  a  portrait  much  disfigured  by  the  high,  stiff  stock  and  tremendous 
coat-collar  of  the  period.  No  one  would  recognize  it  as  the  likeness 
of  William  E.  Gladstone,  with  its  round  cheeks  and  coal-black  hair. 
It  was  an  open,  engaging  countenance,  retaining  a  great  deal  of  that 
expression  which  we  observe  in  young  men  who  have  been  so  unspeak- 
ably fortunate  as  to  preserve  their  innocence.  This  quality  of  inno- 
cence did  not  commend  him  to  the  electors  of  Newark.  They  resented 
him  as  the  duke's  candidate,  received  his  speeches  with  howls  and 
derision,  and   asked  him    disagreeable  questions.     He  was  described, 


MR.    GLADSTONE.  265 

after  the  election,  by  the  anti-ducal  newspaper  of  the  town,  as  "the 
son  of  Gladstone  of  Liverpool,  who  has  made  his  gold  from  the  blood 
of  black  slaves." 

"Respecting  the  youth  himself,"  continued  the  editor,  "a  person 
fresh  from  college,  and  whose  mind  is  as  much  like  a  sheet  of  white 
foolscap  as  possible,  he  is  utterly  unknown.  He  comes  recommended 
by  no  claim  in  the  world,  except  tJie  will  of  the  duke.  The  duke  nodded 
unto  Newark ;  and  Newark  sent  back  the  man,  or  rather  the  boy,  of 
his  choice.  What  !  Are  sixteen  hundred  men  still  to  bow  down  to  a 
wooden-headed  lord,  as  the  people  of  Egypt  used  to  do  to  their  beasts, 
to  their  reptiles,  and  their  ropes  of  onions  ?  " 

This  was  only  too  true.  The  young  man's  opponent  was  a  dis- 
tinguished lawyer,  highly  popular,  who  was  greeted  with  cheers  when- 
ever he  was  seen  ;  while  the  young  man  from  Liverpool  was  hooted 
and  reviled.  But,  when  it  came  to  voting  for  the  favorite,  the  people 
were  reported  to  have  said,  "  We  can  not,  we  dare  not.  We  have .  lost 
half  our  business,  and  shall  lose  the  rest  if  we  go  against  the  duke." 

Mr.  Gladstone  was  therefore  elected,  and  continued  to  represent 
the  city  for  nearly  fourteen  years,  always  kept  in  his  place  by  the 
Duke  of  Newcastle.  Another  curious  circumstance  is,  that  the  maiden 
speech  of  the  new  member,  delivered  in  May,  1833,  was  a  kind  of 
apology  for  West-India  slavery,  in  which  he  defended  his  father  from 
the  charge  of  inhumanity  to  his  slaves,  and  declared,  that,  if  the  slaves 
were  set  free  without  previous  preparation,  liberty  would  be  a  curse 
to  them  instead  of  a  blessing.  Very  soon,  however,  he  entered  upon 
topics  more  congenial,  and  obtained  standing  in  the  House  as  a  prom- 
ising debater. 

It  thus  appears  that  one  of  the  leading  champions  of  liberal  prin- 
ciples owed  his  admission  into  public  life  to  a  flagrant  abuse  of  power 
on  the  part  of  a  rich  man,  who,  in  this  instance,  rendered  a  great  and 
lasting  service  to  his  country.  On  the  other  hand,  where  the  people 
are  free  to  choose,  they  have  sometimes  made  the  worst  possible  choice. 
A  long  list  of  the  great  lights  of  the  English  Parliament  owed  their 
first  election  to  the  mere  power  of  wealth,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  one 
young  man  of  first-rate  ability  has  ever  been  the  spontaneous  choice  of 
any  community.  In  truth,  the  art  of  electing  public  men  has  still  to  be 
created. 

On  coming  out  of  college,  the  student  had  taken  about  the  course 
which  the  son  of  a  thriving  American  usually  follows.  But  at  this 
point  the  paths  diverge.     The  American  young  man  as  little  thinks  of 


266  MR.    GLADS10NE. 

entering  the  Legislature,  or  preparing  himself  for  public  life,  as  if  no 
such  employments  existed.  And  suppose  he  should  have  such  an  am- 
bition, where  is  there  a  constituency  that  would  discover  his  promise 
of  merit,  and  elect  him  to  a  seat  in  the  State  House  ?  I  do  not  say 
that  any  constituency  ought  to  do  so.  It  would  be  against  the  theory 
of  the  government,  as  well  as  contrary  to  the  practice  of  the  people. 
Our  people  want  their  representatives  to  represent  them  ;  and  it  could 
not  be  said  that  a  young  Astor,  or  a  young  Vanderbilt,  or  a  young 
Grinnell,  just  out  of  Columbia  College,  could  represent  any  New-York 
constituency. 

But  a  student  who  passes  through  Eton  and  Oxford  with  distinc- 
tion, becomes  known,  in  some  degree,  to  the  whole  ruling  class  of 
Great  Britain ;  and  there  are  powerful  men  in  both  parties  who  are  on 
the  lookout  for  promising  young  men  to  strengthen  their  side  in  Par- 
liament. Thus,  Macaulay  wrote  a  review  article  or  two  which  tickled 
extremely  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne,  who  forthwith  sent  the  young 
man  a  polite  letter,  offering  him  a  seat  in  Parliament.  Mr.  Gladstone, 
in  early  life,  was  as  strongly  inclined  to  the  Tory  aspect  of  things  as 
Macaulay  was  to  the  Whig.  Over  his  fine  and  susceptible  organiza- 
tion the  exquisite  city  of  Oxford  had  cast  its  magic  spell ;  as  well  it 
might,  for  it  is  the  most  winningly  venerable  of  cities.  The  Duke  of 
Newcastle  offered  him  also  a  place  in  Parliament,  which  he  accepted, 
and  continued  to  hold  by  favor  of  the  same  duke  for  fourteen  years. 

Now,  in  many  cases,  this  system  works  ill,  putting  into  Parliament 
men  without  knowledge,  or  public  spirit  ;  but  occasionally  it  works 
magnificently  well.  In  the  instance  of  Mr.  Gladstone,  it  gave  to 
Great  Britain  a  statesman  who  has  rendered  to  his  country  rare  and 
great  services,  some  of  which  are  out  of  the  line  of  ordinary  politics, 
and  will  stand  out  in  history  as  turning-points.  He  entered  Parlia- 
ment a  pronounced  Conservative  ;  and  one  of  the  first  of  his  public 
acts  was  to  publish  an  elaborate  work  upon  church  and  state,  in  which 
he  maintained  that  one  of  the  principal  ends  and  duties  of  a  govern- 
ment is  to  teach  religion.  Nor  did  he  limit  this  statement  to  Christian 
governments,  but  applied  it  to  Mohammedan  as  well. 

"If,"  said  he,  "a  Mohammedan  conscientiously  believes  his  religion 
to  come  from  God,  and  to  teach  divine  truth,  he  must  believe  that 
truth  to  be  beneficial,  beyond  all  other  things,  to  the  soul  of  man  ;  and 
he  ought  therefore  to  desire  its  extension,  and  to  use  for  its  extension 
all  proper  and  legitimate  means ;  and,  if  such  Mohammedan  be  a 
prince,  he  ought  to  count  among  those  means  the  application  of  what- 


MR.    GLADSTONE.  267 

ever  influence  or  funds  he  may  lawfully  have  at  his  disposal  for  such 
purposes." 

This  is  rather  vague ;  but  it  would  seem  to  justify  much  of  the 
intolerance,  and  even  persecution,  of  early  times.  Macaulay  flew  at 
this  book  in  the  exuberance  of  his  youthful  strength,  and  tore  it  to 
shreds.  He  asserted  that  this  passage  justified  the  Emperor  Julian  in 
employing  his  power  to  destroy  Christianity;  and  justified  the  Sultan 
of  Turkey  in  excluding  from  office,  in  his  Christian  dominions,  all  per- 
sons who  were  not  Mohammedans  !  Mr.  Gladstone,  however,  is  a  man 
capable  of  learning  from  contact  with  men  and  affairs.  This  great 
statesman,  who  began  life  as  the  champion  of  such  opinions  as  these, 
crowned  his  career  by  disestablishing  the  Episcopal  Church  in  Ireland. 
He  entered  Parliament  a  Protectionist,  and  he  lent  powerful  help  to 
Sir  Robert  Peel  in  repealing  the  corn-laws.  Not  too  friendly  to  the 
United  States  at  the  beginning  of  the  civil  war,  he  submitted  the  claim 
of  the  United  States  to  international  arbitration,  and  thus  took  the 
first  step  towards  the  suppression  of  war,  and  its  costly  armaments. 

English  statesmen  generally  enjoy  an  advantage,  not  always  pos- 
sessed by  those  of  our  own  land,  in  having  country  estates  to  which 
they  can  retire  when  out  of  office,  and  occasionally  while  in  office. 
No  one  can  attain  to  the  full  measure  of  harmonious  manhood  who  is 
totally  severed  from  the  soil,  the  common  source  of  health  and  wealth  ; 
and  surely,  if  any  man  should  have  an  advantageous  lot,  it  is  those 
who  administer  public  affairs. 

Mr.  Gladstone's  country  home  is  at  Hawarden,  a  beautiful  parish 
in  the  county  of  Flint,  within  sight  and  sound  of  the  Irish  sea.  Flint, 
or  Flintshire,  is  the  smallest  county  in  Wales,  but  not  the  least  attrac- 
tive. One-third  of  its  extent  is  owned  by  thirteen  proprietors,  of 
whom  the  premier  ranks  second  in  the  number  of  his  acres.  Lord 
Hanmer  has  seventy-three  hundred  and  eighteen,  and  Mr.  Gladstone 
sixty-nine  hundred  and  eight,  acres.  Except  a  well-wooded  park,  this 
estate  is  divided  into  farms,  which  are  let  to  tenants  upon  long  leases, 
at  a  rent  of  something  like  ten  dollars  an  acre.  This  rent,  however, 
has  of  late  years  been  subject  to  serious  reductions,  owing  to  an  ex- 
traordinary series  of  bad  harvests.  Such  an  estate  would  usually  yield 
the  proprietor  about  forty  thousand  dollars  a  year. 

The  house  in  which  Mr.  Gladstone  lives  is  called  Hawarden  Castle. 
American  visitors,  who  naturally  think  that  all  castles  must  be  like 
those  described  in  Sir  Walter  Scott's  poems  and  novels,  are  disap- 
pointed in  finding  this  one  an  imitation  castle,  built  only  fifty  or  sixty 


268  MR.    GLADSTONE. 

years  ago,  —  a  plain,  roomy  house,  with  sham  battlements,  such  as  a 
retired  merchant  of  the  last  generation  might  have  built.  Indeed,  we 
believe  it  was  built  by  Mrs.  Gladstone's  grandfather,  who  was  an  alder- 
man of  Liverpool.  The  aesthetic  visitor  is  consoled  by  a  sight  of  the 
real  Hawarden  Castle,  —  an  ivy-mantled  ruin,  which  lifts  its  green  and 
venerable  front  in  full  view  of  the  inhabited  mansion,  which  has  noth- 
ing to  recommend  it,  except  that  it  is  convenient  and  comfortable. 

It  may  be  said,  perhaps,  that  these  two  edifices  well  represent  their 
present  proprietor,  who  is  himself  a  nineteenth-century  man,  yet  cher- 
ishes a  wise  regard  for  the  fourteenth.  We  say  a  wise  regard.  He 
values  the  ivy-mantled  ruin,  without  forgetting  that  it  is  a  ruin,  and 
lives  in  the  ugly  house  which  has  the  modern  improvements. 

Mr.  Thoreau  would  not  approve  the  interior  of  Mr.  Gladstone's 
abode.  Thoreau  was  of  opinion  that  we  moderns  have  too  many 
"things."  He  was  never  tired  of  laughing  at  the  man,  who,  when  he 
was  advised  to  go  South  for  the  cure  of  his  consumption,  cried  out,  in 
a  pitiful  tone,  — 

"  But  what  shall  I  do  with  my  furniture  ? " 

From  the  picture  published  some  time  ago  of  Mr.  Gladstone's 
library,  we  should  conclude  it  useless  for  any  friend  or  admirer  to  give 
him  a  bust,  a  statuette,  an  easy-chair,  or  a  book.     He  is  full. 

The  charm  of  Hawarden,  as  of  every  other  noted  European  house, 
is  its  park.  For  many  centuries,  the  English  people  have  had  a  par- 
ticular taste  for  rural  beauty,  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  homes  of 
powerful  families  have  always  been  in  the  country.  If  you  were  to  go 
through  the  whole  of  Burke's  Peerage,  and  ask  every  person  mentioned 
in  it,  "  Where  do  you  live,  my  lord  ? "  not  one  of  them  would  answer, 
"London."  They  have  "houses"  in  London,  but  their  homes  are 
where  the  birds  sing.  Hence,  age  after  age,  the  taste  of  the  nation 
has  exhausted  itself  in  developing  and  displaying  the  loveliness  of  the 
country,  until  an  English  park  is  the  most  exquisite  thing  to  be  seen 
in  the  world.  Mr.  Gladstone  delights  chiefly  in  his  trees,  and  he  likes 
them  too  well  to  let  them  fall  into  decay.  When  a  tree  has  reached 
its  perfect  growth,  he  rejoices  to  cut  it  down  with  his  own  hands  and 
a  good  American  axe.  He  has  a  choice  collection  of  thirty  axes,  many 
of  which  have  been  sent  to  him  by  persons  sympathizing  with  his  love 
of  the  woodsman's  craft.  For  his  own  chopping,  however,  he  will 
have  no  axe  but  the  instrument  made  in  New  England,  and  developed 
to  perfection  by  two  centuries  of  battle  with  the  primeval  forest. 

A  very  pretty  story  was  published  some  time  ago  in  the  English 


MR.    GLADSTONE.  269 

» 

papers  about  Mr.  Gladstone  and  his  son  cutting  down  a  tree  in  the 
presence  of  a  great  number  of  spectators.  Access  to  the  park  is 
freely  granted  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  adjacent  country  :  and,  on  this 
particular  occasion,  a  liberal  club,  numbering  fourteen  hundred  per- 
sons, passed  a  day  there  with  the  permission  of  the  owner ;  and  they 
sent  him  a  request  that  he  would  come  out  and  address  them.  This 
he  declined  to  do  ;  but  he  told  the  committee  that  he  and  his  son  were 
going  into  the  park  in  the  afternoon  to  fell  a  tree,  and  he  would  then 
respond  to  any  vote  of  thanks  which  the  company  might  give  him. 

About  four  in  the  afternoon,  the  two  gentlemen  came  forth,  —  the 
father  sixty-seven,  the  son  twenty-eight,  —  both  dressed  in  rough  clothes 
and  soft  hats,  with  axes  in  their  hands ;  and  they  were  followed  to  the 
tree  by  the  whole  crowd,  who  arranged  themselves  in  a  great  circle 
around  it.  It  was  a  tree  of  immense  size,  five  feet  in  diameter  ;  but 
the  two  gentlemen  took  off  their  coats,  hats,  and  cravats,  until  their 
costume  was  reduced  to  trousers  and  checked  shirts,  and  soon  began 
to  make  the  chips  fly  in  a  lively  manner,  the  more  zealous  of  the  ex- 
cursionists picking  them  up  as  mementos .  of  the  occasion.  A  Glee 
Club  struck  up  a  song,  the  whole  crowd  joining  in  the  chorus,  with  axe 
accompaniment ;  and,  when  the  choppers  paused  to  wipe  the  perspi- 
ration from  their  faces,  the  crowd  drew  near  to  shake  hands  with  Mr. 
Gladstone,  who,  however,  refused  this  privilege  to  all  but  the  ladies 
of  the  company.  Finally,  a  vote  of  thanks  was  passed ;  and  the  states- 
man spoke  a  few  friendly  words  in  reply,  thanking  them  for  their  music, 
and  expressing  the  pleasure  he  felt  in  their  presence  on  his  domain. 

This  is  a  delightful  picture.  It  is  thus  that  the  people  and  their 
servants  ought  to  feel  toward  one  another,  and  it  is  thus  they  will  feel 
when  both  parties  deserve  it. 

I  have  never  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  Mr.  Gladstone  speak, 
though  I  have  been  in  the  House  of  Commons  when  he  was  present. 
I  will  borrow  a  description  of  his  oratory  from  Mr.  G.  W.  Smalley,  the 
English  correspondent  of  "The  New-York  Tribune,"  who  accompanied 
the  premier  to  Mid-Lothian  in  1884:  — 

"  The  first  note  of  his  voice  was  listened  for  with  something  like  anxiety.  Is  it 
possible,  that,  after  five  years,  that  marvellous  organ  should  be  still  in  its  full  perfec- 
tion of  flexible  strength  ?  The  curious  in  such  details  may  note  that  a  bottle  of 
yellow  fluid,  from  which  a  tumbler  has  been  half  filled,  stands  on  the  table.  The 
yellow  fluid  is  egg-flip,  a  beverage,  which,  on  this  occasion,  may  be  described  as 
purely  medicinal  in  character  and  purpose,  and  is  compounded  of  the  yolk  of  two  or 
three  eggs,  and  two  glasses  of  sherry.     This  is  to  keep  throat  and  voice  in  order; 


270  MR.    GLADSTONE. 

and,  before  the  orator  has  made  an  end,  he  has  sipped  a  tumblerful.  But  the  first 
note  of  the  voice,  and  the  first  half-dozen  sentences  of  the  first  day,  were  re-assuring. 
There  is  no  longer  any  fear  that  Mr.  Gladstone  may  be  overtaxing  his  energies.  I 
heard  one  of  his  friends  say  that  he  himself  could  take  an  accurate  measure  of  his 
capacities,  and  of  the  precise  demands  a  particular  hall  and  audience  would  make 
upon  them.  He  feels,  as  the  rest  of  us  feel,  that  the  voice  is  all  right.  Yet  he  does 
not  once  try  its  full  compass.  The  speech  is  didactic,  expository,  argumentative,  any 
thing  you  like  but  passionate  or  pathetic ;  and  you  never  know  the  full  resources  of 
this  all  but  unequalled  voice  till  you  have  heard  it  used  in  anger,  in  pity,  in  ridicule 
(for  which  he  keeps  one  or  two  very  subtle  semi-notes),  —  above  all,  in  one  of  those 
appeals  to  principle,  and  to  what  I  must  call  religious  conviction,  which  so  often  and 
so  nobly  close  some  of  his  greatest  speeches. 

"  I  can  well  imagine  that  a  stranger,  hearing  Mr.  Gladstone  on  Saturday  for  the 
first  and  only  time,  should  go  away  with  a  certain  sense  of  incompleteness  in  his 
experience.  He  would  have  heard  a  speech  which  nobody  else  could  have  made,  but 
he  would  by  no  means  have  heard  the  orator  at  his  best.  What  I  have  said  about 
the  little  call  he  made  on  his  voice  may  be  applied  to  the  speech  itself.  He  has  not 
asked  himself  to  do  all  he  can.  It  is  a  speech  with  a  definite  purpose;  and  he  has 
deliberately  sacrificed  every  thing  to  the  one  great  end  of  impressing  on  the  country 
the  supreme  importance  of  the  Franchise  Bill,  and  on  the  lords  the  supreme  advis- 
ability of  yielding,  without  force,  to  the  will  of  the  people.  But  let  the  stranger 
come  again  on  Monday.  The  place  is  the  same,  the  scene  is  the  same,  the  same 
orator  stands  on  the  same  platform.  But  he  is  no  longer  in  the  same  mood  of  sweet 
reasonableness,  and  nothing  else.  The  very  face  has  changed.  On  Saturday  it  wore 
a  look  of  resolute  placidity.  On  Monday  the  features  are  allowed  their  natural  play; 
and,  if  you  sit  near  enough  to  look  into  those  onyx-hued  eyes,  you  will  vainly  try  to 
sound  their  luminous  depths.  Anybody  who  has  seen  Mr.  Gladstone  often,  will  dis- 
cover at  once,  that,  for  this  second  address,  he  feels  himself  —  to  use  again  his  own 
memorable  expression  —  unmuzzled.  There  is  no  longer  the  dread  of  rousing  popu- 
lar passion  against  an  institution,  which,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  the  prime  minister  is 
more  anxious  to  support  than  to  assail.  The  inexorable  necessity  of  caution  weighs 
him  down  no  longer.  He  approaches  this  new  task  with  a  buoyant  delight  in  the 
easy  triumph  he  is  about  to  win.  The  five  years  have  rolled  off  his  brow.  Erect, 
elastic,  exultant,  he  can  hardly  wait  till  the  five  thousand  in  front  have  done  cheering, 
—  indeed,  but  for  his  obvious  impatience  to  begin,  they  might  be  cheering  till  now. 
In  the  first  sentence  on  Monday,  you  really  hear  his  voice  for  the  first  time.  No 
trace  of  fatigue  from  the  prolonged  effort  of  Saturday.  None  of  the  hardness  of 
tone  which  was  to  be  heard  then.  Compass,  range,  and  quality  are  all  enlarged  and 
bettered. 

'•His  task  now  is,  to  retort  upon  his  opponents  the  charges  they  have  been 
heaping  up  against  him.  For  five  years  the  Tories  have  gone  about  insisting,  with 
vague  but  emphatic  assertion  and  re-assertion,  that  the  prime  minister  had  falsified 
the  pledges  which  Mr.  Gladstone  had  given  in  the  first  Mid-Lothian  speeches.  Three- 
fourths  of  his  speech  on  Monday  are  one  triumphant  cry,  'Prove  it!'  or,  rather, 
1  You  have  tried  to  prove  it.  You  have  had  the  text,  you  have  piled  accusation  upon 
accusation,  you  have  had  years  to  get  up  your  case.  I  challenge  you  to  put  your  finger 
on  one  count  of  this  long  indictment  which  you  have  supported  by  one  syllable  of  evi- 


MR.    GLADSTONE.  27 1 

dence.'  He  goes  over  the  record.  He  reviews  the  situation.  He  passes  from  topic 
to  topic,  perhaps  too  rapidly ;  perhaps  with  a  too  comprehensive  ambition,  and  with 
too  much  eagerness  to  survey,  in  one  single  statement,  the  whole  course  of  his  ad- 
ministration, and  to  condense  into  this  hour  and  a  half  a  complete  epitome  of  all  he 
said  in  a  week  in  1879,  and  all  that  his  enemies  have  said  in  five  years  since;  and  to 
set  in  a  halo  of  light  all  the  glaring  contradictions,  the  baseless  inventions,  of  his 
critics,  and  the  perfect  and  absolute  harmony  between  his  own  pledges  and  the  ac- 
complished facts  of  his  subsequent  career.  But  what  a  scope  such  a  programme 
gives  him  !  How  he  revels  in  it !  How  he  heaps  irony  upon  sarcasm  !  and  how  his 
defence  rises  to  white-heat,  and  the  steel  you  thought  he  was  shaping  into  a  shield 
suddenly  flashes  before  you  a  two-edged  sword,  and  cleaves  asunder,  in  one  blinding 
stroke,  the  unhappy  foe  ! 

"  Oh,  yes  !  this  indeed  is  oratory ;  and  in  the  two  hours,  less  ten  minutes,  during 
which  it  lasts,  you  may  find  examples  of  nearly  every  charm  which  it  is  possible  for 
an  orator  to  work  upon  his  hearers.  The  effect  he  produces  does  not  owe  much  to 
gesture.  There  is  gesture,  but  it  often  lacks  expressiveness.  The  arms  are  used 
pretty  constantly ;  but  the  same  movement  of  the  same  muscles  is  made  to  signify, 
or  meant  to  signify,  very  different  things.  It  wants  what  on  the  French  stage  is 
called  largeness  or  amplitude ;  and  it  is  sometimes  violent,  sometimes  deficient  in 
the  grace  and  suavity  which  the  admirable  smoothness  of  voice  leads  you  to  expect. 
The  shoulders  rise  and  fall  with  what  I  am  afraid  must  at  times  be  described  as  jerki- 
ness.  Indeed,  at  such  moments,  the  voice  itself  sometimes  loses  its  purity,  and  harsh 
notes  are  heard.  The  rather  frequent  passage  of  the  right  forefinger  across  the  lips, 
and  the  curious  touch  of  the  thumb  on  a  particular  spot  at  the  summit  of  the  broad 
arch  of  the  forehead,  are  peculiarities  which  I  mention  only  for  the  sake  of  fidelity, 
and  with  every  apology  to  the  orator  for  taking  note  of  such  specks  upon  the  general 
splendor  of  his  delivery.  So  of  the  quick  bending  and  straightening  of  the  knees. 
The  impression  one  gets  from  these  exceptional  things  is  but  momentary.  They  are 
incidents  due  to  the  overmastering  intensity  of  thought  and  aim,  —  nature,  in  her 
cruder  moods,  getting  the  better  of  the  consummate  art  which  is  the  prevailing,  and 
all  but  continuous,  condition  with  the  orator.  If  there  be  any  deficiencies  of  this 
sort,  you  will  hardly  observe  them  unless  after  long  familiarity  with  the  speaker. 
It  is  the  face  which  will  rivet  your  gaze,  —  the  play  of  features,  alike  delicate  and 
powerful,  and  the  ever-restless,  far-searching  glance.  Never  was  such  a  tell-tale 
countenance.  Expression  after  expression  sweeps  across  it,  the  thought  pictures 
itself  to  you  almost  before  it  is  uttered ;  and,  if  your  eyes  by  chance  meet  his,  it 
is  a  blaze  of  sunlight  which  dazzles  you.  Nor  do  the  little  blemishes  really  mat- 
ter. What  masters,  what  impresses,  you,  and  what  you  will  carry  away  with  you  as 
a  permanent  and  precious  memory,  is,  above  all  other  things,  the  nobleness  of  pres- 
ence, the  beautiful  dignity,  the  stateliness  of  bearing,  the  immense  sincerity,  which 
are  visible  to  the  eyes  of  the  most  careless  spectator,  and  which  fill  the  hall  with 
their  influence,  and  place  the  great  multitude  wholly  at  the  mercy  of  the  one  fellow- 
being  who  stands  before  them." 


MR.   GLADSTONE   IN   THE   HOUSE. 


Bv   LOUISE   CHANDLER   MOULTON. 

IT  is  not  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  for  a  lady  to  gain  admittance 
to  the  House  of  Commons.  She  must  either  know  a  member,  or 
be  acquainted  with  some  one  who  does ;  since  one  is  admitted  only 
upon  a  member's  order. 

There  are  six  hundred  and  fifty-six  members  of  the  House ;  and  the 
Ladies'  Gallery  will  not  hold  comfortably  more  than  sixty  persons,  — 
will  not,  indeed,  hold  more  than  thirty  who  can  have  the  slightest 
chance  of  seeing  and  hearing.  Admissions  so  difficult  of  attainment 
are  eagerly  sought  ;  and  as  each  member  can  introduce  only  two 
ladies,  when  his  infrequent  turn  comes,  one  has  often  to  wait  for  some 
time  before  being  present  at  a  session  of  what  Walter  Bagehot,  in  one 
of  his  clever  essays,  called  "  a  nocturnal  and  oratorical  club,  where  you 
met  the  best  people  who  could  not  speak,  as  well  as  a  few  of  the  worst 
who  would." 

May  16,  1881,  was  rather  a  Field  Day  in  the  House ;  as  the  attend- 
ance was  very  full,  and  Gladstone  made  one  of  his  bravest  and  best 
speeches. 

Your  first  impression  of  the  House  is,  that  it  is  a  somewhat  small 
and  simple  hall  of  assembly  for  the  representatives  of  so  great  a  na- 
tion as  Great  Britain.  It  is  seventy  feet  long,  forty-five  broad,  and 
forty-five  high.  The  Ladies'  Gallery  is  at  the  north  end,  and  under- 
neath it  the  Reporters'  Gallery,  below  which  is  the  Speaker's  desk. 
On  the  right  of  the  Speaker's  desk  are  the  Liberal  Benches.  The 
Treasury  Bench,  where  sit  Gladstone  and  the  members  of  the  govern- 
ment, is  the  one  nearest  the  Speaker;  and  back  of  it,  occupying  all  that 
side  of  the  hall,  are  Gladstone's  supporters, — the  Liberal  members. 

On  the  left  of  the  Speaker's  desk  are  the  benches  of  the  Opposi- 
tion, the  upper  half  of  them  being  occupied  by  the  Conservatives ; 
272 


MR.    GLADSTONE  IN  THE  HOUSE. 


273 


while  below  the  gangway,  on  the  same  side  with  the  Conservatives,  sit 
the  Home  Rulers, — the  Irish  members,  who  desire  for  Ireland  her 
own  Parliament  in  Dublin.  It  is  the  policy  of  the 
Home  Rulers  to  oppose  the  government,  whatever 
the  government  may  be.  Thus,  the  present  govern- 
ment being  Liberal,  they  sit  with  the  Conservatives, 
between  whom  and  themselves  the  union  is  about 
as  close  as  between  oil  and  water. 


Gladstone. 


These  rows  of  benches,  three  on  each  side,  are  not  nearly  enough 
to  accommodate  all  the  members,  if,  on  any  rare  occasion,  they  should 
turn  out  in  full  force  ;  so  there  are  two  upper  galleries,  on  each  side, 
for  them  to  overflow  into.  At  the  end  of  the  members'  benches  is  the 
bar,  merely  a  sort  of  threshold  or  foot-line  across  the  floor,  but  full  of 
significance.  Below  the  bar  are  some  benches  occupied  by  friends  of 
the  speakers,  and  people  who  have  some  kind  of  connection  with  the 


274  MR.    GLADSTONE  IN  THE  HOUSE. 

House  ;  and  it  is  on  one  of  these  benches  that  Bradlaugh,  fhe  trouble- 
some, had  been  wont  to  sit,  making  his  frequent  advances  to  the  bar, 
until  his  entrance  into  the  House  was  forbidden. 

At  the  lower  end  of  the  hall,  opposite  the  Ladies'  Gallery,  are 
three  more  galleries,  —  the  Peers'  Gallery,  the  Ambassadors'  Gallery, 
and  the  Strangers'  Gallery.  All  these  various  galleries  are  hospitably 
open  to  the  light,  and  well  adapted  for  hearing  the  speakers,  with  the 
sole  exception  of  the  Ladies'  Gallery,  which  is  shut  off  from  the  rest 
of  the  House  by  a  grating  similar  to  those  with  which  we  protect  our 
area-windows  from  cats  or  burglars. 

It  is  a  little  dark  box  of  a  place  ;  and,  shut  in  there,  the  beauty  of 
old  England  looks  through  little  holes  in  the  grating,  some  three  or 
four  inches  square,  down  on  the  oratorical  tournament  of  England's 
chivalry  below.  It  is  impossible  to  see  much  of  the  House,  unless  you 
get  a  front  seat  in  the  gallery ;  and  it  is  yet  more  impossible  to  hear, 
yet  even  the  farthest  back  seats  are  taken.  I  asked  a  member  why 
the  ladies  were  thus  hidden,  and  was  told  that  they  were  "  supposed 
not  to  be  there  at  all."  This  little  box  behind  the  grating  is  a  con- 
cession to  the  natural  desire  of  the  English  feminine  heart  to  see  how 
its  lords  disport  themselves,  but  the  weakness  is  hid  by  the  grating. 

I  had  an  excellent  view  of  Gladstone  as  he  sat  on  the  Treasury 
Bench.  He  looked  old  and  worn  ;  but  seventy-two  years  is,  at  least, 
not  youth,  though  in  England  they  hardly  call  it  old  age.  On  this 
particular  occasion,  the  prime  minister  seemed  weary,  and  was  very 
pale. 

The  first  two  hours  were  occupied  with  the  putting  of  questions, 
many  of  them  coming  from  the  benches  of  the  Home  Rulers.  Among 
the  latter  sat  Justin  MacCarthy,  the  novelist,  and  the  author  of  that 
pleasant  and  taking  history  of  our  own  times  which  every  one  has  been 
reading.  Not  far  off  was  the  famous  Irish  agitator,  Parnell.  He  has 
a  scholarly,  intellectual  face,  and  he  comported  himself  very  quietly. 
In  the  front  row  of  the  Home  Rulers  was  a  young  member  named 
O'Donnell,  who  was  the  most  perfect  Jack-in-the-box,  scarcely  sitting 
down  before  he  was  on  his  feet  again. 

He  had,  evidently,  a  pleasant  conviction  that  he  was  good-looking, 
and  wanted  to  appear  at  his  best.  You  would  see  him  furtively  run- 
ning his  fingers  through  his  hair,  twirling  the  corners  of  his  mustache, 
patting  his  necktie  affectionately,  and  then  he  would  spring  to  his 
feet,  and  talk  with  all  an  Irishman's  swift  enthusiasm.  He  was  evi- 
dently the  most  troublesome  of  the  Obstructives.     For  him  to  begin 


MR.    GLADSTONE  IN  THE  HOUSE.  275 

to  speak  was  the  signal  for  a  general  disturbance.  Cries  of  "  No,  no !  " 
and  "  Order,  order ! "  from  the  ministerial  benches,  were  responded  to 
by  vociferous  and  encouraging  shouts  of  "Hear,  hear!"  from  his  own 
friends.  Once  or  twice  the  disturbance  was  too  much  for  him,  and  he 
subsided  into  his  seat  with  a  protest.  At  such  times,  the  clamor  was 
not  unlike  that  of  a  bear-garden  ;  and  you  came  to  the  conclusion,  that 
it  was  as  noisy  an  affair  to  govern  the  great  English  nation  as  to 
manage  a  menagerie. 

The  members  usually  kept  their  hats  on,  except  when  they  rose  to 
speak ;  though  the  prime  minister  and  the  other  members  of  the  gov- 
ernment were  all  the  time  decorously  uncovered.  I  looked  directly 
down  upon  the  strong,  bald  head  of  Mr.  Gladstone,  with  his  keen, 
aquiline  profile,  and  his  steadfast  lips  ;  and  a  sense  of  his  power 
grew  on  me.  He  rose,  now  and  then,  in  answer  to  some  question, 
and  spoke  for  a  few  minutes ;  but  his  voice  was  weak,  and  I  was  unable 
to  catch  many  of  his  words.  I  began  to  think  that  his  oratorical  days 
must  be  over,  but  I  was  to  find  out  my  mistake  later  on. 

Mrs.  Gladstone  came  once  or  twice  into  the  Ladies'  Gallery,  and 
looked  anxiously  down  on  him  ;  and  I  heard  her  say  that  he  was  very 
ill,  and  she  was  troubled  lest  he  might  not  be  able  to  speak  on  the 
Land  Bill,  as  was  expected. 

From  half-past  five  to  half-past  six,  one  group  of  ladies  after  an- 
other went  out  to  the  tea-room,  leaving  fan  or  reticule  or  book  in 
their  seats  by  way  of  token  that  they  meant  presently  to  return  and 
reclaim  them.  The  tea-room  is  very  pleasant  and  comfortable,  and  its 
rest  and  refreshment  were  most  welcome.  You  get  chops,  sandwiches, 
bread  and  cheese,  delicious  tea  or  coffee,  or  any  slight  refreshment  you 
may  fancy ;  and  then  you  make  your  way  back  to  the  little  den  behind 
the  railing. 

At  about  a  quarter  to  seven,  the  questions  having  been  disposed 
of  for  the  night,  Mr.  Gladstone  rose  to  discuss  the  Irish  Land  Bill. 
He  apologized  for  speaking  earlier  than  had  been  expected,  on  the 
ground  of  indisposition  which  would  prevent  him  from  remaining 
through  the  evening. 

At  first  his  voice  was  low  and  weak,  as  when  he  had  spoken  to 
the  questions  ;  but  it  gathered  strength  and  volume  as  he  went  on. 
He  has  one  gesture  only  ;  and  that  is,  to  bring  down  his  right  hand  with 
a  sort  of  sledge-hammer  force  on  the  table  in  front  of  him,  where  lie 
his  voluminous  papers,  to  which  he  seldom,  however,  refers.  His 
speech  was  strong,  telling,  noble.     He  had  just  a  touch  of  playfulness 


276  MR.    GLADSTONE  IN  THE  HOUSE. 

sometimes,  as  when  he  said,  concerning  one  of  his  opponents,  "  My 
noble  friend  delivered  his  speech  with  such  good  humor,  and  was  him- 
self so  obviously  pleased  with  it,  that  his  delight  was  almost  infectious. 
I  myself  was  not  insensible  to  the  charm  of  it." 

There  was  something  almost  touching  in  the  tribute  he  paid  to  his 
lifelong  antagonist,  Lord  Beaconsfield,  of  whose  insight  and  far-seeing 
wisdom  he  spoke  very  warmly. 

"I  have  had,"  he  said,  "a  long  experience  of  Lord  Beaconsfield; 
and  you  do  not  remain  wholly  ignorant  of  a  man  with  whom,  on  a 
thousand  questions,  you  are  obliged,  however  unequally,  to  measure 
swords." 

There  was  the  ring  of  a  brave,  proud  manliness  in  the  tone  in 
which  he  said,  — 

"  This  question  will  never  be  settled  by  a  measure  smaller  than  the 
Bill  before  the  House.  If  you  overthrow  it,  and  with  it  the  govern- 
ment which  attaches  to  it  its  fortunes,  and  if  you  take  their  places,  you 
will  pass,  not  a  smaller,  but  a  larger,  measure." 

In  the  whole  speech,  there  was  a  breadth  of  toleration,  a  fair-minded 
willingness  to  listen  to  whatever  of  helpful  or  modifying  suggestion 
might  come  from  the  other  side,  that  was  beyond  praise.  As  he  went 
on,  his  voice  grew  constantly  deeper  and  richer.  His  words  were 
chosen  with  the  utmost  precision  and  felicity ;  yet  they  flowed  from 
his  lips  without  hesitation,  and  without  effort. 

I  have  heard  men  who  gave  one  a  greater  sense  of  passionate  and 
persuasive  oratorical  power,  but  no  man,  anywhere,  who  has  spoken 
to  one's  intellect  more  simply,  strongly,  and  commandingly  than  this 
old  man  eloquent. 

For  an  hour  and  a  half  he  spoke,  without  the  slightest  symptom  of 
flagging,  holding  the  rapt  attention  of  his  audience.  When  he  sat 
down,  at  last,  one  could  see  that  the  inevitable  physical  re-action  had 
come  upon  him.  His  head  fell  back  wearily.  His  face  grew  very  pale 
again ;  and,  at  a  quarter-past  eight  o'clock,  he  went  out  of  the  House 
with  slow  and  weary  steps. 

The  debate  continued,  after  he  left,  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. But  the  lion  had  gone  ;  and  one  felt  that  the  rest,  bright  and 
forcible  as  many  of  their  speeches  were,  were  not  worthy  of  compari- 
son with  him. 


COLLEGE    LIFE    OF    RUFUS   CHOATE. 


By   E.   P.    WHIPPLE. 

THE  early  days  of  one  of  the  greatest  advocates,  lawyers,  and 
orators  of  our  country  possess  special  interest  to  the  young  stu- 
dent who  has  fixed  upon  law  as  his  profession.  Law,  in  the  United 
States,  has  always  been  more  or  less  connected  with  politics.  Rufus 
Choate  was  a  great  lawyer,  who  was  drawn  into  politics  against  his 
will.  The  wish  of  his  heart  was  to  devote  to  literature,  and  to  literary 
production,  all  the  leisure  which  the  exacting  requirements  of  his  pro- 
fession would  allow  him  to  obtain.  He  was  a  statesman  and  a  patriot, 
but  he  was  not  a  politician. 

In  the  early  life  of  this  remarkable  man,  we  detect  in  germ  the 
traits  of  mind  and  character  which  distinguished  his  manhood.  He 
belonged  to  one  of  the  "noble  families"  of  New  England  ;  that  is,  of 
farmers  who  worked  on  their  own  land,  and  by  their  frugality,  integ- 
rity, and  intelligence  established  modest  homes,  in  which  all  the  do- 
mestic virtues  flourished.  The  "Choates"  date  from  the  year  1667. 
They  had  a  farm  in  that  part  of  the  town  of  Ipswich,  Mass.,  now  called 
Essex.  The  farm  was  on  an  island,  separated  from  the  main  land  by 
an  arm  of  the  sea.     Here  Rufus  Choate  was  born,  on  Oct.  1,  1799- 

His  father,  like  all  the  Choates  of  whom  anybody  has  ever  heard, 
was  a  man  who  would  have  obtained  prominence  in  any  locality  where 
he  resided.  He  had  all  the  solid  qualities  of  character  which  invite 
and  justify  public  trust  in  tested  honesty  and  ability.  Rufus  was  the 
second  son,  but  he  ranked  as  the  fourth  of  six  children.  From  his 
birth  he  showed  peculiar  qualities  of  mind  and  character.  There  was 
something  in  him  which  made  him,  not  only  different  from  his  brothers, 
but  different  from  New-England  boys  generally.  He  not  only  pos- 
sessed genius,  but  genius  of  a  rare  and  peculiar  kind.  Years  after- 
wards, in  a  speech  in  the  Senate  of  the  United  States,  he  hints  of  the 


278  COLLEGE  LLFE   OF  RUFUS   CHOATE. 

feelings  and  meditations  which  occupied  no  small  portion  of  his  own 
childhood  and  youth.  In  speaking  of  the  advantages  of  a  protective 
tariff,  he  lays  special  emphasis  on  its  promoting  diversity  of  occupa- 
tions. He  then  sketches  the  history  of  a  family  of  five  sons,  four  of 
whom  find  the  employment  which  best  fits  the  taste  and  talent  of  each. 
But  what  for  the  fifth  son  ?  "  In  the  flashing  eye,  beneath  the  pale 
and  beaming  brow  of  that  other  one,  you  detect  the  solitary  first 
thoughts  of  genius.  There  are  the  seashore  of  storm  or  calm,  the 
waning  moon,  the  stripes  of  summer-evening  cloud,  traditions,  and  all 
the  food  of  the  soul  for  him."  Here  we  have  Choate  the  boy  described 
by  Choate  the  man. 

He  had  the  poet's  power  of  infusing  individual  life  into  inanimate 
things.  When,  as  a  boy,  he  drove  home  his  father's  cow,  he  would 
sometimes,  after  throwing  away  the  switch,  go  back,  pick  it  up,  and 
place  it  under  the  tree  from  which  he  had  cut  it.  "Perhaps,"  he  said, 
"there  is,  after  all,  some  yearning  of  nature  between  them  still." 
Even  Wordsworth,  eminently  the  poet  of  Nature,  did  not  have,  at  so 
early  an  age,  a  sympathy  with  nature  so  refined  as  this. 

It  is  to  be  supposed  that  such  a  boy  would,  to  use  his  own  expres- 
sion, throw  himself  on  books  "like  a  famished  host  on  miraculous 
bread."  The  books  that  he  could  obtain  were  few  in  number;  but 
those  he  devoured,  not  only  remembering  all  they  contained,  but  realiz- 
ing to  his  imagination  all  they  suggested.  The  words,  as  they  passed 
into  his  mind,  instantly  became  things.  From  the  page  on  which  his 
eyes  rested,  there  started  up  glowing  pictures,  and  fascinating  persons. 
He  read  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  when  he  was  six  years  old  ;  and  he 
not  only  got  it  by  heart,  but  eloquently  expounded  it  to  his  companions, 
dramatically  reproducing  the  scenes,  incidents,  and  characters  of  that 
wonderful  allegory,  so  that  the  little  people  he  addressed  were  made 
to  see  in  it  what  he  saw.  Another  book  in  which  he  delighted,  was  a 
life  of  Marshal  Saxe,  —  an  eminent  leader  of  the  armies  of  France 
about  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century.  All  that  general's  battles 
were  fought  over  again  in  the  boy's  imagination  ;  and  he  caught  also, 
as  by  infection,  the  marshal's  military  ardor.  But  sea-fights  had  even 
more  attraction  for  him  than  land-fights.  He  was  thirteen  years  old 
when  the  war  of  181 2,  between  the  United  States  and  England,  broke 
out.  From  the  shore,  he  often  caught  sight  of  English  and  American 
cruisers  in  Ipswich  Bay.  He  eagerly  read  all  accounts  he  could  obtain 
of  naval  engagements,  especially  between  English  and  American  ships- 
of-war.     Nothing  pleased  him  more  than  to  give  to  those  around  him 


COLLEGE  LLFE    OF  RUFUS   CHOATE.  279 

as  vivid  an  idea  of  a  sea-fight  as  glowed  in  his  own  mind.  His  brother 
records  that  he  would  act  over  certain  parts  of  such  a  contest  with 
other  boys,  "he  telling  them  what  to  do,  how  to  load,  at  what  to  aim, 
not  how  to  strike  a  flag  (that  never  seemed  to  come  in  the  category), 
but  how  to  nail  one  to  the  mast,  with  orders  to  let  it  wave  while  he 
lived." 

And,  again,  while  he  and  his  younger  brother  were  waiting  "for  the 
family  to  breakfast,  dine,  or  sup  (that  was  the  way  the  children  were 
then  taught  to  do),  one  would  have  the  dog,  and  the  other  the  cat, 
each  holding  it  fast,  and,  at  the  signal,  bringing  them  suddenly  to- 
gether, in  imitation  of  two  hostile  ships  or  armies  ;  Rufus,  in  the  mean 
while,  repeating  the  story  of  an  actual,  or  imagined,  fight  with  as  much 
volubility  as  he  ever  afterwards  used  in  court,  and  with  such  an  arrange- 
ment of  the  plan  of  the  fight  as  made  all  seem  wonderfully  real." 

His  passion  for  the  sea,  at  this  time,  was  intense.  The  height  of 
his  ambition  was  to  be  a  captain  of  a  man-of-war.  The  thorough-going 
patriotism  which  blazes  and  burns  in  many  an  imperfectly  reported 
oration  of  his  manhood  was  doubtless  intensified  by  the  fact,  that  dur- 
ing the  most  impressible  years  of  his  life,  from  thirteen  to  sixteen,  his 
country  was  at  war  with  England.  On  our  side  the  glory  of  that  war 
was  specially  naval.  The  exclamation  of  the  American  heroic  sailor, 
"  Don't  give  up  the  ship  !  "  was  always  one  of  his  favorite  quotations  ; 
and,  as  it  came  from  his  lips,  it  caught  much  of  the  glow  and  inspira- 
tion which  originally  prompted  its  utterance.  , 

But  the  boy  was  a  hardy  stripling,  good  for  practical  every-day  labor 
on  the  farm,  as  well  as  good  for  flights  of  genius,  which  soared  above 
all  his  surroundings,  and  all  the  people  with  whom  he  was  associated. 
He  not  only  could  tire  out  most  of  his  companions  on  the  playground, 
but  he  was  an  excellent  hand  at  field-work,  and  engaged  with  alacrity, 
even  in  the  monotonous  work  of  digging  and  hauling  stone,  and  con- 
structing stone  walls.  Indeed,  the  master-workman  in  the  latter  de 
partment  declared  that  it  was  a  pity  a  lad  so  strong  and  active  should 
be  sent  to  college,  —  it  being,  some  sixty  years  ago,  a  prevalent  feeling 
among  New-England  farmers,  that  only  the  weakling  of  the  family,  fit 
for  no  useful  labor,  should  receive  a  collegiate  education  ;  but  the  lad 

gayly  replied  to  this  regret  of  the  sturdy  fence-builder,  "  Mr.   N , 

if  ever  I'm  a  lawyer,  I'll  plead  all  your  cases  for  nothing."  Still,  he 
always  carried,  into  the  roughest  physical  work,  a  certain  poetic  elation 
of  mind,  and  a  kind  of  poetic  elasticity  of  body,  —  something  which 
the  laborers  about  him  called  springy. 


2 So  COLLEGE  LIEE   OF  RUFUS   CHOATE. 

His  handling  of  a  crowbar,  his  jumping  to  hook  or  unhook  a  chain, 
or  to  stop  or  start  a  team,  had  a  grace  and  swiftness  of  movement 
which  commanded  admiration  ;  and,  at  every  lucky  hit  in  his  work,  he 
gave  a  cry  of  joyous  exultation,  such  as  we  might  suppose  a  lyrical 
poet  would  give  as  a  fine  epithet  or  a  new  image  flashed  upon  his 
fancy.  Indeed,  it  may  be  truly  said  of  him,  in  regard  to  all  these 
matters,  that  — 

"  Rustic  life  and  poverty 
Grew  beautiful  beneath  his  touch." 

He  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  had  any  regular  "schooling."  What 
he  had  was  intermittent.  He  learned  much  at  the  district  school, 
but  more  from  the  occasional  instruction  of  elderly  friends  and  rela- 
tives of  his  family,  who  gladly  volunteered  to  teach  a  pupil  so  promis- 
ing. His  quickness  of  apprehension,  and  his  ready  memory  of  what 
he  apprehended,  would  have  been  insufficient  to  qualify  him  to  enter 
college  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  had  he  not,  in  the  course  of  his  miscel- 
laneous and  interrupted  studies,  prematurely  developed  some  of  the 
higher  faculties  of  the  mind,  —  those  faculties  which  arrange  bits  of 
information,  obtained  here  and  there,  into  some  logical  order,  and 
which  so  combine  disunited  parts  of  knowledge  loosely  floating  in  the 
memory,  that  they  lead  up  to  the  principles  on  which  they  depend, 
and  give  meaning  and  coherence  to  much  "scattering  and  unsure 
observance." 

Choate's  real  preparation  for  college  seems  to  have  been  about  six 
months,  which  he  passed  at  Hampton  Academy.  In  the  summer  of 
1815,  he  entered  Dartmouth  College,  at  the  age  of  sixteen.  Here,  as 
in  all  his  previous  experiences  of  school-life,  he  was  soon  recognized 
as  a  person  of  exceptional  genius  and  character.  His  merely  physical 
advantages  were  in  his  favor,  for  Dartmouth  had  never  before  received 
a  freshman  who  equalled  him  in  classic  beauty  of  form  and  face.  In- 
deed, he  continued  to  be  what  New-Englanders  call  "a  very  handsome 
man,"  until  strenuous  labors,  in  the  court-room,  and  in  the  Senate  of 
the  United  States,  had  eventually  reduced  his  ruddy  complexion  almost 
to  the  color  of  saffron,  and  had  broken  up  his  once  smooth  counte- 
nance into  a  thousand  wrinkles,  the  records  left  by  severe  and  exhaust- 
ing thought.  But,  when  he  entered  Dartmouth,  he  was  the  model  of 
what  a  college  student  should  be.  During  the  first  year  of  his  college- 
course,  his  modesty  kept  him  in  the  background  :  but  it  was  soon 
apparent  that  he  was  the  first  man  in  his  class ;  and  it  is  a  signal 
proof  of  the  essential  geniality  of  his  nature,  that  his  fellow-collegians 


COLLEGE  LLFE    OF  RUFUS   CLiOATE. 


281 


cordially  ratified  the  decision  of  the  professors.  He  was  not  only 
recognized  as  the  first  man  in  his  class,  but  all  felt  that  there  was  a 
wide  gulf  between  him  and  the  second  man  in  it. 

His  progress,  in  every  study,  was  so  rapid,  that  one  of  his  class- 
mates afterwards  declared 
that  he  never  knew  a  stu- 
dent in  the  college,  who 
attempted  to  study  a  sub- 
ject with  Choate,  who  did 
not  abandon  the  compan- 
ionship in  despair,  because 
he  felt  himself  "  a  clog  and 
an    encumbrance    on    the 


swift  mind  that  leaped  to  results  at  which  his  own  intellect  painfully 
crawled." 

The  superiority  of  Choate  is  proved,  as  I  have  said,  by  the  readi- 
ness with  which  it  was  acknowledged  by  his  fellow-students.  Envy 
and  rivalry  might  be  active  in  his  class,  but  could  never  be  directed 
against    him ;    for  envy,  the    meanest    of   passions,  was    overcome  by 


282  COLLEGE  LIFE    OF  RUFUS   CHOATE. 

Choate's  willingness  to  aid  his  companions  in  every  attempt  they  made 
to  surpass  himself ;  and  his  ingenuous  modesty  made  his  evident 
superiority  a  fact  which  was  accepted  without  a  murmur.  All  who 
knew  Mr.  Choate,  when  his  fame  was  fully  established,  must  have 
noted  how  unobtrusive  he  was  in  conversation.  When  he  quoted  from 
an  author,  he  began  by  saying  to  his  companion  for  the  time,  "  As  you 
must  remember  ; "  and,  when  he  stated  a  novel  fact  or  opinion,  it  was 
commonly  introduced  with  the  remark,  "  As  you  very  well  know." 

There  was  always  manifested  in  his  mind,  character,  and  behavior, 
in  youth  as  well  as  in  manhood,  a  certain  magical  charm.  A  student 
of  Dartmouth,  entering  the  recitation-room  for  the  first  time,  has 
recorded  his  impressions  of  the  scene  presented  to  him. 

"I  watched,"  he  says,  "each  successive  voice  with  the  keen  curi- 
osity of  a  new-comer,  when  Choate  got  up,  and  in  those  clear,  musical 
tones,  put  Livy's  Latin  into  such  exquisitely  fit  and  sweet  English  as 
I  had  not  dreamed  of,  and  in  comparison  with  which  all  the  other  con- 
struing of  that  morning  seemed  the  roughest  of  unlicked  babble." 

He  graduated  in  1819,  with  the  highest  honors.  At  Commence- 
ment he  delivered  the  valedictory  oration.  His  health  had  broken 
down  towards  the  close  of  his  last  year  in  college,  and  his  six  weeks 
of  vacation  were  to  him  weeks  of  enfeebling  sickness.  Still,  his  vale- 
dictory was  so  excellent,  that  it  remains  one  of  the  choicest  traditions 
now  proudly  referred  to  by  the  students  and  graduates  of  Dartmouth. 
He  did  not  occupy  ten  minutes  in  his  address  ;  but  in  that  short  space 
of  time  was  concentrated  more  thought  and  emotion,  more  elevated 
and  touching  eloquence,  than  in  any  similar  speech  of  which  the  Com- 
mencements of  our  American  colleges  preserve  a  record.  We  are 
told  by  old  men,  who  heard  it  when  they  were  boys,  that  it  gave 
promise  of  every  thing  which  Choate  afterwards  achieved.  Though 
"  pale,  wasted  by  fever,  with  hardly  strength  enough  to  stand  on  the 
platform,"  the  spirit  of  what  he  said  was  so  noble,  and  the  "tones  of 
his  voice  so  surpassingly  tender  and  affectionate,"  that  the  whole  audi- 
ence, young  and  old,  were  entirely  overcome  and  swept  away  by  his 
eloquence ;  and  prominent  in  the  audience  was  no  less  a  man  than 
Daniel  Webster. 

After  graduating,  Choate  spent  a  year  in  the  college,  filling  the 
office  of  tutor.  There  never  was  a  better  teacher ;  for  he  not  only 
///formed,  but  /'//spired,  the  students  submitted  to  his  guidance.  His 
own  enthusiasm  for  learning  and  literature  became  contagious.  Some 
tutors  only  impart  knowledge  ;  but  he  not  only  imparted  knowledge, 


COLLEGE  LLFE    OF  RUFUS   CHOATE.  283 

but  inflamed  his  pupils  with  a  passionate  love  of  knowledge.  Those 
he  taught  soon  became  his  friends,  and  master  and  scholar  joyously- 
worked  together.     There  was  no  insubordination  in  his  classes. 

A  solid  farmer,  once  attending  a  political  meeting  where  one  of 
the  speakers  was  violently  hissed,  declared  to  a  friend  near  by,  "  The 
people  here  have  no  respect  for  that  talkative  fellow,  because  there  is 
no  respect  in  him."  Choate  had  that  quality  in  him  which  ever  com- 
manded respect.  But  the  great  peculiarity  of  his  teaching  was  this  : 
that,  in  communicating  knowledge,  he  communicated  with  it  his  own 
ardent  and  powerful  nature ;  that  is,  he  communicated  himself.  Any 
one  of  the  students,  whose  mind  came  into  vital  contact  with  his,  might 
have  exclaimed,  with  the  poet,  — 

"  He  was  like  the  sun,  giving  me  light, 
Pouring  into  the  caves  of  my  young  brain 
Knowledge  from  his  bright  fountains." 


REMINISCENCES    OF 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON. 


By  LOUISA   M.  ALCOTT. 

AS  I  count  it  the  greatest  honor  and  happiness  of  my  life  to  have 
known  Mr.  Emerson,  I  gladly  accede  to  a  request  for  such  recollec- 
tions as  may  be  of  interest.  My  first  remembrance  is  of  the  morning 
when  I  was  sent  to  inquire  for  little  Waldo,  then  lying  very  ill.  His 
father  came  to  me  so  worn  with  watching,  and  changed  by  sorrow, 
that  I  was  startled,  and  could  only  stammer  out  my  message. 

"  Child,  he  is  dead,"  was  his  answer. 

Then  the  door  closed,  and  I  ran  home  to  tell  the  sad  tidings.  I 
was  only  eight  years  old,  and  that  was  my  first  glimpse  of  a  great 
grief  ;  but  I  never  have  forgotten  the  anguish  that  made  a  familiar 
face  so  tragical,  and  gave  those  few  words  more  pathos  than  the  sweet 
lamentation  of  the  "Threnody." 

Later,  when  we  went  to  school  with  the  little  Emersons  in  their 
father's  barn,  I  remember  many  happy  times  when  the  illustrious  papa 
was  our  good  playfellow.  Often  piling  us  into  a  bedecked  hay-cart,  he 
took  us  to  berry,  bathe,  or  picnic  at  Walden,  making  our  day  charming 
and  memorable  by  showing  us  the  places  he  loved,  the  wood-people 
Thoreau  had  introduced  to  him,  or  the  wild-flowers  whose  hidden 
homes  he  had  discovered.  So  that  when  years  afterward  we  read  of 
"the  sweet  Rhodora  in  the  wood,"  and  "the  burly,  dozing  humblebee," 
or  laughed  over  "The  Mountain  and  the  Squirrel,"  we  recognized  old 
friends,  and  thanked  him  for  the  delicate  truth  and  beauty  which  made 
them  immortal  for  us  and  others. 

When  the  book-mania  fell  upon  me  at  fifteen,  I  used  to  venture 
into  Mr.  Emerson's  library,  and  ask  what  I  should  read,  never  con- 
scious of  the  audacity  of  my  demand,  so  genial  was  my  welcome.  His 
284 


RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON.  285 

kind  hand  opened  to  me  the  riches  of  Shakspeare,  Dante,  Goethe,  and 
Carlyle  ;  and  I  gratefully  recall  the  sweet  patience  with  which  he  led 
me  round  the  book-lined  room  till  "the  new  and  very  interesting 
book "  was  found,  or  the  indulgent  smile  he  wore  when  I  proposed 
something  far  above  my  comprehension. 

"Wait  a  little  for  that,"  he  said.  "Meantime  try  this  ;  and,  if  you 
like  it,  come  again." 

For  many  of  these  wise  books  I  am  waiting  still,  very  patiently ; 
because  in  his  own  I  have  found  the  truest  delight,  the  best  inspiration 
of  my  life.  When  these  same  precious  volumes  were  tumbled  out  of 
the  window,  while  his  house  was  burning  some  years  ago,  as  I  stood 
guarding  the  scorched,  wet  pile,  Mr.  Emerson  passed  by,  and,  survey- 
ing the  devastation  with  philosophic  calmness,  only  said,  in  answer  to 
my  lamentations,  — 

"  I  see  my  library  under  a  new  aspect.  Could  you  tell  me  where 
my  good  neighbors  have  flung  my  boots  ? " 

In  the  tribulations  of  later  life,  this  faithful  house-friend  was  an 
earthly  Providence,  conferring  favors  so  beautifully  that  they  were  no 
burden,  and  giving  such  sympathy,  in  joy  and  sorrow,  that  very  ten- 
der ties  were  knit  between  this  beneficent  nature  and  the  grateful 
hearts  he  made  his  own.  Acquaintance  with  such  a  man  is  an  educa- 
tion in  itself,  for  "the  essence  of  greatness  is  the  perception  that 
virtue  is  enough;"  and,  living  what  he  wrote,  his  influence  purified 
and  brightened  like  sunshine. 

Many  a  thoughtful  young  man  and  woman  owe  to  Emerson  the 
spark  that  kindled  their  highest  aspirations,  and  showed  them  how  to 
make  the  conduct  of  life  a  helpful  lesson,  not  a  blind  struggle. 

"  For  simple  maids  and  noble  youth 
Are  welcome  to  the  man  of  truth  : 
Most  welcome  they  who  need  him  most ; 
They  feed  the  spring  which  they  exhaust, 

For  greater  need 

Draws  better  deed." 

He  was,  in  truth,  like  his  own  Saadi,  —  a  cheerer  of  men's  hearts." 
"  Friendship,"  "  Love,"  "  Self-Reliance,"  "  Heroism,"  and  "  Com- 
pensation," among  the  essays,  have  become  to  many  readers  as  pre- 
cious as  Christian's  scroll ;  and  certain  poems  live  in  the  memory  as 
sacred  as  hymns,  so  helpful  and  inspiring  are  they.  No  better  books 
for  earnest  young  people  can  be  found.     The  truest  words  are  often 


286  RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON. 

the  simplest ;  and,  when  wisdom  and  virtue  go  hand  in  hand,  none 
need  fear  to  listen,  learn,  and  love. 

The  marble  walk  that  leads  to  his  hospitable  door  has  been  trodden 
by  the  feet  of  many  pilgrims  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  drawn  thither 
by  their  love  and  reverence  for  him.  In  that  famous  study,  his  towns- 
people have  had  the  privilege  of  seeing  many  of  the  great  and  good 
men  and  women  of  our  time,  and  learning  of  their  gracious  host  the 
finest  lessons  of  true  courtesy.  I  have  often  seen  him  turn  from 
distinguished  guests,  to  say  a  wise  or  kindly  word  to  some  humble 
worshipper  sitting  modestly  in  a  corner,  content  merely  to  look  and 
listen,  and  who  went  away  to  cherish  that  memorable  moment  long 
and  gratefully. 

Here,  too,  in  the  pleasant  room,  with  the  green  hills  opposite,  and 
the  pines  murmuring  musically  before  the  windows,  Emerson  wrote 
essays  more  helpful  than  most  sermons  ;  lectures  which  created  the 
lyceum  ;  poems  full  of  power  and  sweetness ;  and,  better  than  song 
or  sermon,  has  lived  a  life  so  noble,  true,  and  beautiful,  that  its  wide- 
spreading  influence  is  felt  on  both  sides  of  the  sea. 

In  all  reforms  he  was  among  the  foremost  on  the  side  of  justice 
and  progress.  When  Faneuil  Hall  used  to  be  a  scene  of  riot  and 
danger  in  anti-slavery  days,  I  remember  sitting  up  aloft,  an  excited 
girl,  among  the  loyal  women  who  never  failed  to  be  there  ;  and  how 
they  always  looked  for  that  serene  face  on  the  platform,  and  found 
fresh  courage  in  the  mere  sight  of  the  wisest  man  in  America,  stand- 
ing shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  bravest.  When  woman's  suffrage 
was  most  unpopular,  his  voice  and  pen  spoke  for  the  just  cause, 
undaunted  by  the  fear  of  ridicule  which  silences  so  many. 

His  own  simple,  abstemious  habits  were  his  best  testimony  in 
favor  of  temperance  in  all  things  ;  while,  in  religion,  he  believed  that 
each  soul  must  choose  its  own  aids,  and  prove  the  vitality  of  its  faith 
by  high  thinking  and  holy  living. 

When  travelling  in  various  countries,  I  found  his  fame  had  gone 
before ;  and  people  were  eager  to  hear  something  of  the  Concord  poet, 
seer,  and  philosopher.  In  a  little  town  upon  the  Rhine,  where  our 
party  paused  for  a  night,  unexpectedly  delayed,  two  young  Germans, 
reading  the  word  Boston  on  the  labels  of  our  trunks  as  they  stood  in 
the  yard  of  the  inn,  begged  to  come  in  and  see  the  Americans ;  and 
their  first  question  was,  — 

"Tell  us  about  Emerson." 

We    gladly   told   them    what   they   asked ;    and   they   listened    as 


RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON.  287 

eagerly  as  we  did  to  any  thing  we  could  hear  concerning  their  great 
countryman,  Goethe. 

A  letter  once  came  to  me  from  the  Far  West,  in  which  a  girl  asked 
what  she  should  read  to  build  up  a  noble  character.  It  was  a  remark- 
able letter ;  and,  when  I  inquired  what  books  she  most  desired,  she 
answered,  "All  of  Emerson's  :  he  helps  me  most." 

A  prisoner  just  from  Concord  jail  came  to  see  me  on  his  release, 
and  proved  to  be  an  intelligent,  book-loving  young  man,  who  had  been 
led  into  crime  by  his  first  fit  of  intoxication.  In  talking  with  him,  he 
said  Emerson's  books  were  a  comfort  to  him,  and  he  had  spent  some 
of  the  money  earned  in  prison  to  buy  certain  volumes  to  take  with 
him  as  guides  and  safeguards  for  the  future. 

In  England  his  honored  name  opened  many  doors  to  us,  and  we 
felt  as  proud  of  our  acquaintance  with  him  as  Englishmen  feel  of  the 
medals  with  which  their  Queen  decorates  them  ;  so  widely  was  he 
known,  so  helpful  was  his  influence,  so  ennobling  the  mere  reflection 
of  his  virtue  and  his  genius.  Longfellow  was  beloved  by  children ; 
and  of  Emerson  it  might  be  said,  as  of  Plato,  "  He  walks  with  his  head 
among  the  stars,  yet  carries  a  blessing  in  his  heart  for  every  little 
child." 

When  he  returned  from  his  second  visit  to  Europe,  after  his  house 
was  burned,  he  was  welcomed  by  the  school-children,  who  lined  his 
passage  from  the  cars  to  the  carriage,  where  a  nosegay  of  blooming 
grandchildren  awaited  him  ;  and  escorted  by  a  smiling  troop  of  neigh- 
bors, old  and  young,  he  was  conducted  under  green  arches  to  his 
house.  Here  they  sang  "  Sweet  Home,"  gave  welcoming  cheers,  and 
marched  away  to  come  again  soon  after  to  a  grand  house-warming  in 
the  old  mansion  which  had  been  so  well  restored  that  nothing  seemed 
changed. 

Many  a  gay  revel  has  been  held  under  the  pines,  whole  schools 
taking  possession  of  the  poet's  premises  ;  and  many  a  child  will  gladly 
recall  hereafter  the  paternal  face  that  smiled  on  them,  full  of  interest 
in  their  gambols,  and  of  welcome  for  the  poorest.  Mrs.  Emerson, 
from  her  overflowing  garden,  planted  flowers  along  the  roadside,  and 
in  the  plot  of  ground  before  the  nearest  schoolhouse,  to  beautify  the 
children's  daily  life.  Sweeter  and  more  imperishable  than  these  will 
be  the  recollections  of  many  kindnesses  bestowed  by  one,  who,  in  the 
truest  sense  of  the  word,  was  a  friend  to  all. 

As  he  lay  dying,  children  stopped  to  ask  if  he  were  better ;  and 
all  the  sunshine  faded  out  of   the    little  faces  when    the    sad  answer 


288  RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON. 

came.  Very  willing  feet  roamed  the  woods  for  green  garlands  to 
decorate  the  old  church  where  he  would  come  for  the  last  time ;  busy 
hands  worked  till  midnight,  that  every  house  should  bear  some  token 
of  mourning ;  Spring  gave  him  her  few  early  flowers  and  budding 
boughs  from  the  haunts  that  will  know  him  no  more ;  and  old  and 
young  forgot,  for  a  little  while,  their  pride  in  the  illustrious  man,  to 
sorrow  for  the  beloved  friend  and  neighbor. 

Life  did  not  sadden  his  cheerful  philosophy ;  success  could  not 
spoil  his  exquisite  simplicity ;  age  could  not  dismay  him,  and  he  met 
death  with  sweet  serenity. 

He  wrote,  "  Nothing  can  bring  you  peace  but  yourself.  Nothing 
can  bring  you  peace  but  the  triumph  of  principles."  And  this  well- 
earned  peace  transfigured  the  beautiful  dead  face  so  many  eyes  beheld 
with  tender  reverence,  seeming  to  assure  us  that  our  august  friend 
and  master  had  passed  into  the  larger  life,  for  which  he  was  ready, 
still  to  continue,  — 

"  Without  hasting,  without  rest, 
Lifting  Better  up  to  Best ; 
Planting  seeds  of  knowledge  pure, 
Through  earth  to  ripen,  through  heaven  endure." 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW. 


By  J.   T.   TROWBRIDGE. 

A  LITTLE  more  than  sixty-eight  years  ago,  in  the  city  of  Port- 
land, Me., — which,  by  the  way,  was  not  a  city  then, — an  impor- 
tant literary  event  took  place  ;  though  surely  nobody  was  aware  of  its 
importance  at  the  time, — with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  one  small 
boy,  — and  the  world  has  not  rung  with  it  since.  The  said  small  boy, 
aged  ten,  stole  out  of  his  father's  house  one  evening,  with  an  agitating 
secret  in  his  breast,  and  something  precious  in  his  breast-pocket. 
That  something  was  a  copy  of  verses,  —  a  little,  a  very  little,  poem,  — 
which  he  had  written  by  stealth,  and  which  he  was  now  going  to  drop 
into  the  letter-box  of  the  newspaper-office  on  the  corner. 

More  than  once  he  walked  by  the  door,  fearing  to  be  seen  doing 
so  audacious  a  deed.  But  hope  inspired  him  ;  and  running  to  the  edit- 
or's box,  when  nobody  was  near  to  observe  him,  he  stood  on  his  toes, 
and,  reaching  up,  dropped  the  poem  in.  He  hurried  home  with  a 
fluttering  heart.  But  the  next  evening  he  walked  by  the  office  again, 
and,  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  looked  up  at  the  printers  at 
their  work.  It  was  summer-time,  and  the  windows  were  open ;  and 
seeing  the  compositors  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  each  with  a  shaded  lamp 
over  his  case,  making  a  little  halo  of  hope  and  romance  to  the  boy's 
eyes,  he  said  to  himself,  "  Maybe  they  are  printing  my  poem  !  " 

When  the  family  newspaper  came,  and  he  carried  it  to  a  secret  cor- 
ner, and  opened  it  with  hope  and  fear,  —  sure  enough,  heading  the 
poet's  corner,  and  looking  strange,  but,  oh  !  so  beautiful  in  print,  there 
were  his  precious  verses  ! 

Many  years  after,  he  told  me  the  story  of  this  first  literary  venture 
much  as  I  have  told  it  here.  That  earliest  poem  had  been  followed 
by  works  which  had  become  as  familiar  as  household  words  in  the 
mouths  of   English-speaking   people    all  over  the  world.     Honor  and 

289 


290  HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

fame  were  his  in  full  measure.  But  he  said,  with  a  smile,  "  I  don't 
think  any  other  literary  success  in  my  life  had  made  me  quite  so  happy 
since." 

The  poet  Longfellow  came  of  a  good  family  of  English  stock.  His 
great-grandfather  was  a  blacksmith.  Perhaps  he  had  this  sturdy  ances- 
tor in  mind  when  he  wrote  his  poem  on  "The  Village  Blacksmith"  so 
long  afterwards,  —  though  the  scene  of  it  was  Cambridge,  —  and  drew 
this  moral :  — 

"  Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 
Each  evening  sees  it  close : 
Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 


Thus,  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life, 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought.' 


The  Portland  blacksmith  sent  one  of  his  ten  children  to  Harvard 
College,  and  thus  in  the  grandfather  began  that  liberal  culture  which 
was  to  flower  and  bear  fruit  in  the  author  of  "Evangeline."  The 
father  was  also  a  graduate  of  Harvard,  and  was,  in  his  day,  a  leading 
citizen  and  lawyer  of  Portland  and  a  member  of  Congress. 

The  poet's  mother  was  a  descendant  of  John  Alden  of  "  Mayflower  " 
and  Pilgrim  fame,  whose  wooing  of  the  "damsel  Priscilla"  for  his 
friend,  "the  famous  Captain  of  Plymouth,"  forms  the  subject  of  "The 
Courtship  of  Miles  Standish."  John  himself,  it  will  be  remembered, 
was  in  love  with  Priscilla. 

"  But  as  he  warmed  and  glowed,  in  his  simple  and  eloquent  language, 
Quite  forgetful  of  self,  and  full  of  the  praise  of  his  rival, 
Archly  the  maiden  smiled,  and,  with  eyes  overrunning  with  laughter, 
Said,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  '  Why  don't  you  speak  for  yourself,  John  ? ' " 

The  poet  was  born  in  Portland,  on  the  twenty-seventh  day  of  Feb- 
ruary, 1807.  He  was  a  happy,  healthy,  studious  child,  fond  of  boyish 
sports,  but  fonder  still  of  books,  especially  books  of  poetry  and  classic 
prose.  He  entered  Bovvdoin  College  in  his  fourteenth  year,  and  gradu- 
ated at  eighteen,  the  second  in  rank  in  his  class.  The  college  after- 
wards bore  the  highest  testimony  to  his  fine  literary  scholarship,  by 
creating  a  chair  of  modern  languages  and  literature,  expressly  that  he 
might  be  invited  to  fill  it.     He  had,  at  first,  thought  of  the  law ;  but 


HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


291 


this  call  from  his  Alma  Mater  opened  to  him  a  far  more  congenial 
career.  He  joyfully  accepted  it,  but,  before  assuming  his  new  duties, 
visited  Europe,  where  he  spent  four  years,  chiefly  in  Germany,  Italy, 
France,  and  Spain,  studying  the  languages  and  literatures  of  those 
countries,  and  preparing  for  his  university-work. 

He  was  also  preparing  for  other  and  far  higher  work,  —  storing  his 
mind  with  beautiful  thoughts  and  images,  and  perfecting  that  simple 
ease  of  expression  which  was  to  form  so  lovely  a  characteristic  of  his 
style. 

The  independent  literary  career,  which  enables  so  many  nowadays 
to  win  bread,  and  perhaps  fortune,  by  the  pen,  was  then  hardly  known 
in  America.  There 
were  no  great  maga- 
zines and  newspapers 
of  large  circulation 
to  pay  liberal  prices 
for  articles ;  and,  in 
order  to  get  money 
while  he  was  earning 
fame,  the  man  of  let- 
ters must  edit  a  news- 
paper, like  Bryant ; 
have  a  clerkship,  like 
Halleck  ;  a  place  in 
the  Custom  House, 
like  Hawthorne  ;  or  a 
professorship  in  a  col- 
lege, like  Longfellow. 

He  became  a  contributor  to  the  best  periodicals  of  those  days. 
But  the  pay  he  received  was  ridiculously  small.  In  later  years,  when 
editors  were  glad  to  get  a  contribution  from  him  on  any  terms,  he 
once  spoke  of  having  just  received  for  a  poem  a  price  which  seemed 
to  him  very  large.  I  replied  that  it  did  not  seem  to  me  excessive, 
considering  the  name  and  fame  that  went  with  it. 

"Ah  !  "  said  he,  "you  young  fellows  "  (to  be  called  by  him  a  young 
fellow  was  delightfully  flattering  to  my  gray  hairs)  "have  had  the 
luck  to  come  along  at  a  time  when  good  prices  prevail.  You  would 
think  differently  if  you  had  written  as  many  poems  for  five  dollars 
apiece  as  I  have." 

He  continued  his  connection  with  Bowdoin  until  his  growing  fame 


Birthplace  of  Longfellow. 


292  HENRY  WADSWORTII  LONGFELLOW. 

as  an  author  and  translator,  quite  as  much  as  his  reputation  as  a 
teacher,  excellent  as  that  was,  procured  his  appointment  as  professor 
of  modern  languages  in  Harvard  University,  which  honorable  position 
he  retained  from  1835  until  1854.  After  another  year  of  travel  and 
study  abroad,  he  settled  down  to  his  varied  pursuits  in  Cambridge, 
which  remained  his  home  ever  afterwards.  In  his  first  year  there,  he 
boarded  in  the  old  Craigie  House, — a  colonial  mansion  which  had 
known  vicissitudes  of  war  and  fortune,  famous  as  having  once  been 
the  headquarters  of  Washington,  but  destined  to  be  more  famous  still, 
in  later  years,  as  the  home  of  the  poet.  The  spaciousness  of  this  old 
house,  its  beautiful  situation  overlooking  the  broad  valley  where  — 

"  The  flooded  Charles  .  .  . 
Writes  the  last  letter  of  his  name," 

and,  more  than  all,  perhaps,  its  historical  associations,  charmed  the 
young  professor's  fancy ;  and,  after  the  death  of  the  landlady,  he  pur- 
chased it.  There  he  lived  an  almost  ideal  life,  amidst  objects  of  beauty 
and  curiosity  by  which  he  had  gradually  surrounded  himself,  the  centre 
of  a  group  of  friends,  many  of  whom  were  illustrious,  enjoying  a 
charming  domestic  life,  and  producing  the  works  which  delighted  the 
world. 

This  happiness  was  interrupted  by  the  tragical  death  of  his  wife,  — 
a  noble  and  beautiful  woman,  and  the  mother  of  his  five  children.  A 
drop  of  flaming  wax,  which  she  was  melting  at  a  candle  to  amuse  two 
of  them,  fell  upon  her  dress.  What  a  sorrow  her  loss  must  have  been 
to  him,  nobody  knew  from  any  thing  he  ever  said  or  ever  wrote.  He 
did  not  send  forth  a  wail  of  woe  in  his  works,  as  is  the  way  with 
feebler  poets  who  suffer,  or  imagine  they  suffer.  His  affliction  revealed 
itself  only  in  words  of  deeper  faith  and  consolation,  breathed  forth  in 
mellower  verse. 

He  was  sought  by  all  sorts  of  people  in  his  Cambridge  home. 
They  came  literally  from  all  over  the  world.  When  the  Emperor  of 
Brazil  visited  this  country  in  the  centennial  year,  his  first  question,  on 
landing  in  New  York,  was,  "  Where  is  Longfellow  ?  "  Of  course,  many 
came  from  frivolous  motives  ;  and  he  used  to  tell  an  amusing  story  of 
some  English  visitors,  who  said  to  him,  with  rather  astounding  frank- 
ness, — 

"  As  there  are  no  ruins  in  this  country,  we  thought  we  would  come 
and  see  you." 

lie  was  of  medium  height,  with  strong,  symmetrical  features,  mild 


HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


293 


blue  eyes  under  fine  brows,  and  hair  and  beard  of  patriarchal  white- 
ness in  his  later  years.  Charles  Kingsley  said  of  him,  in  1868,  "  Long- 
fellow is  far  handsomer  and  nobler  than  his  portraits  make  him.  I  do 
not  think  I  ever  saw  a  finer  human  face."  This  might  have  been  truly 
said  of  him  to  the  last. 


Longfellow's   Early   Home. 


The  same  gentle  and  humane  spirit  which  characterized  his  writ- 
ings showed  itself  also  in  the  manners  of  the  man.  He  had  the 
simplicity  which  belongs  to  strong  and  true  natures.  He  never  re- 
membered, and  his  affability  made  you  forget,  that  you  were  in  the 
presence  of  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  living  men.  His  fine  sym- 
pathy prompted  him  to  meet  people  on  their  own  ground  of  thought 
and  interest,  and  to  anticipate  their  wishes.  His  ways  with  children 
were  delightful.     I  well  remember  his  setting  the  musical  clock  in  his 


294  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

hall  to  playing  its  tunes  for  a  little  girl  while  he  was  occupied  with  her 
elders,  because  he  could  not  bear  that  she  should  not  also  be  enter- 
tained. On  another  occasion,  when  the  same  little  girl  and  her 
younger  sistet,  in  their  own  home,  approached  with  bashful  pleasure 
as  he  held  out  his  arms  to  them,  he  broke  down  all  barriers  at  once  by 
saying,  — 

"  Where  are  your  dolls  ?  I  want  you  to  show  me  your  dolls.  Not 
the  fine  ones,  which  you  keep  for  company,  but  those  you  love  best, 
and  play  with  every  day." 

Before  the  mother  could  interfere,  they  had  taken  him  at  his  word, 
and  brought  the  shabby  little  favorites  with  battered  noses,  and  were 
eagerly  telling  Mr.  Longfellow  their  names  and  histories,  while  he 
questioned  them  with  an  interest  which  wholly  won  their  childish 
hearts. 

It  was  some  time  before  this  that  he  brought  a  friend  to  the  house ; 

and  our  W ,  then  a  boy  of  thirteen,  took  us  out  on  the  lake  in  his 

boat.     The  friend,  who  was  in  feeble  health,  wished  to  pull  one  oar. 

W ,  full  of  health  and  spirits,  pulled  the  other,  and  pulled  too  hard 

for  him.  He  continued  to  do  so,  in  spite  of  my  remonstrance,  when 
Mr.  Longfellow  said,  — 

"  Let  him  row  in  his  own  way.  He  enjoys  it,  and  we  mustn't 
interfere  with  a  boy's  happiness.  It  makes  no  difference  to  us  whether 
we  go  forward,  or  only  around  and  around." 

He  seemed  to  consider  the  happiness  of  the  young  as  something 
sacred. 

He  was  hospitable  and  helpful  to  other  and  younger  writers.  How 
many  are  indebted  to  him  for  words  of  encouragement  and  cheer ! 
The  last  letter  I  ever  received  from  him  was  written  during  his  illness 
in  the  winter,  when  he  took  the  trouble  to  send  me  an  exceedingly 
kind  word  regarding  something  of  mine  he  had  just  seen  in  a  maga- 
zine, and  which  had  chanced  to  please  him.  He  was  tolerant  to  the 
last  degree  of  other  people's  faults.  I  never  heard  him  speak  with 
any  thing  like  impatience  of  anybody,  except  a  certain  class  of  critics 
who  injure  reputations  by  sitting  in  judgment  upon  works  they  have 
not  the  heart  to  feel,  or  the  sense  to  understand. 

Some  kind  friend  once  sent  me  a  review  in  which  a  poor  little 
volume  of  my  own  verses  was  scalped  and  tomahawked  with  savage 
glee.  Turning  the  leaf,  I  was  consoled  to  see  a  volume  of  Long- 
fellow's treated  in  the  same  slashing  style.  For  I  reflected,  "The 
critic  who  strikes  at  him  blunts  the  weapon  with  which  he  would  wound 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


295 


others."  Meeting  him  in  a  day  or  two,  I  found  that  some  equally  kind 
friend  had  sent  a  copy  of  the  review  to  him.  Seeing  that  he  was  an- 
noyed by  it,  I  said,  — 

"  I  may  well  be  disturbed  when  they  try  to  blowlbut  my  small 
lantern,  but  why  should  you  care  when  they  puff  away  at  your  star? " 

He  replied,  "  The  ill-will  of  anybody  hurts  me.  Besides,  there  are 
some  people  who  will  believe  what  this  man  says.     If  he  cannot  speak 


Longfellow  s  Home  in  Cambridge. 


well  of  a  book,  why  speak  of  it  at  all  ?     The  best  criticism  of  an  un- 
worthy book  is  silence." 

He  had  suffered  from  abundant  foolish  and  unjust  criticism  in 
earlier  days  ;  but  his  wise,  calm  spirit  was  never  more  than  temporarily 
ruffled  by  it.  No  meritorious  work  was  ever  more  severely  judged 
than  "  Hiawatha  "  when  it  first  appeared.  But  the  sales  were  large. 
It  quickly  became  the  most  popular  of  all  his  works,  and  the  reviewers 
who  had  censured  it  joined  in  the  later  chorus  of  its  praise.  "Evan- 
geline "  had  also  been  criticised,  though  less  severely ;  fault  being 
found  particularly  with  the  hexameters,  which  were  declared  to  be  un- 


296  HENRY   WADSWOR2H  LONGFELLOW. 

suited  for  English  verse.  Nevertheless,  the  easy  and  flowing  hexam- 
eters, which  relate  that  exquisitely  beautiful  story,  continue  to  be  read, 
alike  by  the  learned  and  the  unlearned,  with  perennial  delight. 

From  thaAevening  so  long  ago,  when  the  school-boy  timidly 
dropped  his  little  copy  of  verses  into  the  editor's  box,  to  the  27th  of 
February,  when  school-children  all  over  the  land  were  celebrating  his 
seventy-fifth  birthday,  and  the  evening  so  soon  after,  when  the  voices 
of  those  reciting  his  praises,  and  singing  his  songs,  gave  place  to  the 
tolling  of  bells  in  cities  and  towns,  —  between  that  far-off  time  and 
this,  what  a  life  of  beauty  and  beneficence  was  lived !  what  noble, 
happy,  and  enduring  work  was  done ! 


THE   COLLEGE    LIFE   OF   PRESCOTT 
THE   HISTORIAN. 


By  EDWIN  P.  WHIPPLE. 

A  SATIRICAL  medical  writer,  in  giving  directions  to  children  as 
to  the  means  of  preserving  their  health,  began  with  this  ironical 
declaration  :  "  Look  out  that  your  father  and  mother,  and  your  grand- 
father and  grandmother,  had  no  transmissible  disease,  such  as  con- 
sumption, gout,  or  scrofula."  As  if  the  poor  boys  and  girls  could 
"look  out  "  to  evade  causes  of  sickness  existing  long  before  they  were 
born  ! 

It  may,  however,  be  said  of  William  H.  Prescott,  that,  if  he  had 
possessed  the  privilege  of  selecting  his  ancestors,  he  could  not  have 
hit  upon  a  better  family  than  that  from  which  he  was  descended.  The 
first  of  the  Prescotts  who  emigrated  from  England  to  Massachusetts, 
was  a  sturdy  Puritan  soldier  by  the  name  of  John  Prescott,  who  set- 
tled in  Lancaster,  Mass.,  between  1640  and  1650,  and  acquired  a  con- 
siderable amount  of  property  in  land,  which  he  bravely  defended  from 
the  incursions  of  the  Indians,  who  were  his  near  neighbors.  His  sons 
and  grandsons  seem  to  have  had  a  similar  strength  of  character,  and 
a  similar  soundness  of  body  and  mind.  Into  whatever  they  undertook, 
they  threw  the  whole  energy  of  their  natures  ;  and  there  is  no  record 
that  any  one  of  them  ever  did  any  thing  mean,  base,  or  vicious. 

The  grandfather  of  the  historian,  a  farmer  in  Pepperell,  Mass.,  was 
the  Col.  Prescott  who  threw  up  the  redoubt  at  Bunker  Hill,  defended 
it  stoutly  against  the  repeated  attacks  of  the  veteran  English  infantry, 
and  when  compelled,  by  lack  of  ammunition,  to  retire  from  his  posi- 
tion, was  the  last  person  of  his  command  to  leave  the  spot  he  had  so 
skilfully  and    intrepidly  defended.     This   Revolutionary  hero  had,  for 

his  son,  William   Prescott,   who,  in  his  chosen  profession  of  the  law, 

297 


298       COLLEGE  LIFE   OF  PRESCOTT  THE  HISTORIAN. 

gradually  rose  to  be  a  counsellor  of  the  first  rank,  who  was  universally 
respected  for  his  integrity,  as  well  as  for  his  learning  and  intelligence. 
William  Prescott  was  reckoned  to  have  no  superior  at  a  bar  where 
Sullivan,  Parsons,  Dexter,  Otis,  and  Webster  were  his  competitors  ; 
and  on  retiring  from  his  profession,  after  forty  years  of  practice,  he 
was  considered  by  such  a  judge  as  Daniel  Webster  to  have  stood  "at 
the  head  of  the  bar  of  Massachusetts  for  legal  learning  and  attain- 
ments." 

William  Hickling  Prescott,  the  son  of  this  distinguished  lawyer, 
was  born  in  Salem,  Mass.,  on  May  4,  1796. 

The  Prescotts  seem  ever  to  have  been  as  fortunate  in  their  mothers 
as  in  their  fathers,  and  William  was  singularly  blessed  in  this  respect. 
His  mother  was  the  embodiment  of  energy,  good  sense,  and  benefi- 
cence. It  is  the  universal  testimony  of  all  who  knew  her,  that  her  life 
seemed  to  be  passed  in  doing  good  to  others,  and  that  self  never  was 
prominent  in  any  thing  she  thought,  said,  or  did.  She  found  her 
happiness  in  promoting  the  happiness  of  her  family  and  friends.  Her 
benevolence  was  instinctive,  and  she  never  appeared  to  think  that 
there  was  any  virtue  in  the  sacrifices  she  made  of  her  own  selfish 
comfort  in  her  unstinted  devotion  to  the  comfort  and  welfare  of  her 
husband  and  children.  Much  more  than  this,  she  was,  through  life, 
the  friend  of  the  friendless,  the  consoler  of  the  sorrowful,  the  almoner 
of  the  poor,  the  comforter  of  the  sick  and  the  wretched. 

In  Catholic  countries  she  might  have  been  elevated  to  the  rank  of 
a  saint ;  but,  though  her  conduct  was  regulated  by  deep  religious  con- 
victions, she  always  expressed  her  religion  in  acts,  not  in  words,  and 
seemed  intent  on  saving  her  own  soul  by  strenuous  endeavors  to  save 
others.  And  then,  she  differed  from  most  popular  notions  of  saints  in 
this,  that  she  was  as  cheerful  and  joyous  as  she  was  benignant,  and 
had  double  the  mere  animal  spirits  of  those  women  who  never  think 
of  any  thing  but  the  gratification  of  their  own  selfish  desires. 

The  son  of  this  large-brained  father  and  great-hearted  mother  was 
a  pet  from  the  moment  of  his  birth.  Indeed,  his  parents,  whom  he 
loved  almost  as  dearly  as  they  loved  him,  allowed  the  boy  a  more  than 
ordinary  degree  of  freedom.  They  did  this  that  they  might  thus  learn 
what  were  his  real  qualities  of  mind  and  disposition,  and  obtain  an 
accurate  knowledge  of  all  the  tendencies  of  his  nature,  so  that  they 
could  restrain  what  was  bad,  and  stimulate  what  was  good,  in  him. 

This  is  a  dangerous  experiment  in  education  ;  but  it  has,  at  least, 
the    advantage    of   rendering   needless   the    mean   vice  of   lying,  into 


COLLEGE  LLFE    OF  PRESCOTT  THE  HISTORIAN.      299 

which  many  a  boy  falls  from  the  fear  that  his  faults  will  not  be  ten- 
derly dealt  with  by  his  parents.  As  such  a  boy  lies  from  cowardice, 
his  character  is  corrupted  at  the  start ;  and  he  goes  on  lying  through- 
out his  life,  believing  that  as  he  has  escaped  a  number  of  wholesome 
whippings  in  his  childhood  and  youth  by  a  glib  denial  of  the  little 
offences  he  may  have  committed  ;  so,  in  his  manhood,  he  relies  on 
hypocrisy  and  falsehood  to  cover  up  his  graver  violations  of  the  laws 
of  morality  and  religion. 

But  William  Prescott,  from  the  moment  he  left  his  cradle,  was  of 
an  open  nature,  concealing  nothing,  fearing  nothing,  and  trained  ac- 
cording to  the  rules  of  that  method  of  education,  which,  though  it 
may  not  make  a  pupil  a  great  scholar,  tends  to  make  him  sincere, 
honest,  and  brave. 

His  mother  was,  of  course,  his  first  and  last  instructor.  But,  at  an 
early  age,  he  was  sent  to  a  day-school,  kept  by  Miss  Higginson,  one 
of  the  "gentlewomen"  of  Salem,  descended  from  that  Francis  Hig- 
ginson who  came  to  the  town  in  1629,  and  who  still  enjoys  the  repu- 
tation of  being  the  founder  of  the  churches  of  New  England.  In  the 
education  of  the  young  persons  intrusted  to  her  care,  she  disdained 
the  name  of  school-mistress,  adopting  that  of  school-mother ;  and,  in 
the  opinion  of  all  the  best  people  of  Salem,  she  richly  deserved  the 
title. 

In  1803,  at  the  age  of  seven,  he  was  placed  in  the  select  private 
school  of  the  town,  the  teacher  of  which  was  a  gentleman  and  scholar, 
who  seems  to  have  anticipated  many  of  the  more  modern  and  liberal 
ideas  which  now  guide  the  education  of  the  young.  This  worthy 
teacher  was  long  affectionately  remembered  by  several  distinguished 
men,  who,  as  boys,  had  profited  by  his  instruction,  as  the  "  Master 
Knapp,"  who  had  not  only  imparted  to  them  the  rudiments  of  knowl- 
edge, but  had  inspired  them  with  the  disinterested  love  of  knowledge. 
At  this  school  William  did  not  shine  among  Master  Knapp's  pupils. 
From  his  cradle  he  loved  books  ;  and  stories  which  stirred  his  sensi- 
bilities, and  stimulated  his  imagination,  affected  him  like  realities  of 
his  own  experience.  As  a  child,  he  would  sometimes  be  so  strongly 
impressed  by  some  grotesque  fiction  of  ghosts,  fairies,  goblins,  and 
giants,  that  he  would  catch  hold  of  his  mother's  gown,  and  follow  her, 
as  her  household  duties  led  her  to  pass  from  one  room  to  another,  in 
the  fear  of  being  left  alone  with  the  queer  people  that  dwelt  in  his 
brain,  and  which  might,  fo?  all  he  knew,  start  out  into  actual  existence, 
unless  he  were  protected  from  them  by  his  mother's  presence. 


300       COLLEGE  LIFE    OF  FRESCO TT  THE  HISTORIAN. 

But  the  love  of  reading  what  interests  the  mind,  and  the  love  of 
study,  which  tasks  it,  are  two  different  things  ;  and  the  systematic  work 
which  a  school-boy  is  called  upon  to  perform  did  not  agree  with  his 
easy  and  somewhat  indolent  temperament. 

In  after-life,  nothing  in  his  character  seemed  more  admirable  to  his 
friends  than  his  constant  cheerfulness  in  circumstances  which  make 
most  men  irritable,  sulky,  and  morose  ;  and  this  cheerfulness  was  the 
chastened  survival  of  the  riotous,  frolicksome,  animal  spirits  of  his 
babyhood  and  boyhood.  At  any  rate,  the  dear  boy  could  be  made  to 
learn  only  what  he  desired  to  learn.  His  father  must  oftentimes  have 
been  troubled  in  spirit  in  witnessing  the  lazy  good-nature  with'which 
his  bright  son  evaded  exact  studies,  and  resented  attempts  to  make 
him  a  systematic  scholar. 

Indeed,  as  a  lad,  William  overflowed  in  nothing  so  much  as  in  fun 
and  mischief.  He  even  delighted  in  practical  jokes,  the  most  offen- 
sive form  of  juvenile  jocularity,  and  which,  if  such  jokes  do  not  origi- 
nally spring  from  a  malicious  disposition,  are  apt,  by  indulgence  in 
them,  to  create  it.  He  once  brought  down  upon  himself  the  severe 
condemnation  of  his  father  by  frightening  a  servant  girl  in  the  family 
"half  to  death"  by  jumping  out  suddenly  upon  her  from  behind  a 
door. 

It  is  plain  that  such  freaks  of  hilarity  have  their  source  in  a  dis- 
regard of  the  rights  and  feelings  of  others.  Begun  in  boyhood  in 
mere  thoughtlessness,  they  tend  —  if  the  spirit  that  prompts  them  con- 
tinues into  manhood  —  to  make  those  who  practise  them  find  an  odious 
and  ignoble  delight  in  whatever  inflicts  mortification  and  pain  on  their 
associates.  But  Prescott  had  sensitiveness  of  conscience  as  well  as 
hilarity  of  spirits.  Once,  before  he  was  in  his  "teens,"  when  his 
mother  was  grieved  at  some  fault  which  had  probably  sprung  from 
his  love  of  fun,  she  directed  him  to  read  to  her  Dr.  Channing's  "Ser- 
mon to  Children."  As  he  went  on  in  his  reading,  says  Professor  Tick- 
nor,  "  his  lips  began  to  quiver,  and  his  voice  to  choke.  He  stopped, 
and,  with  tears,  said,  — 

"  Mother,  if  I  am  ever  a  bad  boy  again,  won't  you  set  me  to  read- 
ing that  sermon  ? " 

In  1808  his  father  removed  to  Boston;  and  William  was  sent,  at 
the  age  of  twelve,  to  the  private  school  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Gardiner,  one 
of  the  best  classical  scholars  at  that  time  in  New  England,  and  one  of 
the  most  genial  of  teachers.  By  Dr.  Gardiner  he  was  prepared  for 
college.     Professor  Ticknor  was  William's  fellow-pupil  ;   and   he  tells 


COLLEGE  LLFE    OF  PRESCOTT  THE  HLSTORLAN.       301 

us,  in  his  delightful  biography  of  Prescott,  that  the  future  historian 
easily  learned  what  was  necessary  to  qualify  him  for  admission  to  Har- 
vard College,  but  learned  little  else.  He  was,  however,  an  assiduous 
and  enthusiastic  reader  of  miscellaneous  literature.     Southey's  trans- 


William   H.    Prescott 


lation  of   the  old  romance  of    "  Amadis    de  Gaula "  took    a   specially 
strong  hold  of  his  imagination. 

He  was  unconsciously  drawn  by  the  bent  of  his  genius  to  works, 
the  distinguishing  merit  of  which  was  narrative.  He  thus  insensibly 
imbibed  an  idea  of  the  style  best  suited  to  a  narrator,  —  a  style  which 
eventually  made  his  own  narratives  of  historical  events  as  fascinating 
as  most  romances.  In  the  intervals,  however,  of  this  miscellaneous 
reading  and  classical  study,  he  and  a  fellow-pupil  indulged  in  a  great 


302       COLLEGE  LIFE    OF  PRESCOTT  THE  HISTORIAN. 

variety  of  boyish  pranks.  After  going  to  a  circus,  for  example,  they 
would  attempt  to  imitate  what  had  called  forth  their  admiration ;  and 
a  family  cat,  which  they  were  training  to  go  through  some  of  the  cir- 
cus exercises,  became  dreadfully  scorched  in  the  operation.  Then  they 
would  devise  games  of  battle,  stimulated  by  newspaper  accounts  of  the 
European  wars  of  the  time.  But.,  above  all,  they  gloried  in  inventing 
stories,  each  trying  to  excel  the  other  in  the  novelty  and  wildness  of 
the  persons  and  incidents  they  volubly  poured  forth  from  their  fertile 
imaginations. 

In  August,  1811,  William  was  admitted  to  the  sophomore  class  in 
Harvard  College.  After  his  preliminary  examination  was  over,  he 
wrote  an  account  of  it  to  his  father. 

"  When  we  were  first  ushered  into  their  [the  examiners']  presence, 
they  looked  like  so  many  judges  of  the  Inquisition.  We  were  ordered 
down  into  the  parlor,  almost  frightened  out  of  our  wits,  to  be  exam- 
ined by  each  separately ;  but  we  soon  found  them  quite  a  pleasant  sort 
of  chaps." 

After  the  examination  was  over,  and  he  was  assured  by  Tutor 
Frisbie  that  he  had  done  himself  a  great  deal  of  credit,  he  adds,  — 

"  I  feel  myself  twenty  pounds  lighter  than  I  did  yesterday." 

Though  entering  Harvard  College  so  easily,  Prescott  did  not  show 
any  disposition  to  excel  in  scholarship.  He  did  his  tasks,  and  noth- 
ing more.  The  rest  of  his  time  he  devoted  to  amusements.  In 
Greek  and  Latin  he  had  been  so  thoroughly  trained  by  Dr.  Gardiner, 
that  he  readily  excelled  the  great  majority  of  his  fellow-students  in  his 
acquaintance  with  those  languages.  In  metaphysics,  for  which  he  had 
a  distaste,  he  still,  by  hard  study,  qualified  himself  to  pass  a  respect- 
able examination  ;  (but  in  mathematics  he  could  "make  no  show  at 
all."  Incapable  of  understanding  the  elements  of  the  science,  he  at 
first  resorted  to  the  dangerous  "dodge"  of  committing  his  mathemati- 
cal lessons  to  memory,  without  apprehending  any  meaning  in  the 
words  and  signs  he  glibly  recited  ;  but  he  soon  was  disgusted  with  this 
appearance  of  knowing  what  he  did  not  know,  and  he  frankly  con- 
fided to  his  professor  his  hopeless  ignorance  of  the  very  elements  of 
mathematics. 

His  professor,  thus  advised  of  his  incompetency,  graciously  relieved 
him  from  the  task  of  pretending  to  understand  what  he  was  incapable 
of  understanding. 

There  is  nothing  more  ruinous  to  the  mind  of  the  student  than  to 
commit    to    memory  mathematical   demonstrations,  of   which  he  does 


COLLEGE  LLFE    OF  PRESCOTT  THE  HISTORIAN.       303 

not  comprehend  the  principles  on  which  they  rest.  Some  students, 
able  in  every  other  branch  of  study,  though  deficient  in  mathematical 
perception,  have  been  driven  into  insanity  by  following,  through  the 
long  years  of  their  college  life,  the  practice,  at  first  adopted  by  Pres- 
cott,  of  memorizing  problems  in  the  science,  which  he  soon  prudently 
abandoned. 

It  is  curious,  that,  throughout  his  college  life,  Prescott  was  continu- 
ally making  resolutions  as  to  his  conduct  and  studies.  He  recorded 
these  resolutions  on  paper,  and  showed  them  to  his  intimate  friends. 
By  these,  he  said,  his  course  in  college  was  to  be  rigidly  conformed. 
When  he  violated  them,  which  he  often  did,  he  formed  new  resolutions. 
These  had  the  same  fate  as  their  predecessors,  though  they  were  as 
confidently  intrusted  to  his  associates  as  his  first  determinations.  At 
last,  in  despair,  he  told  his  friend  Gardiner  that  he  had  come  to  one 
resolution  that  he  would  never  violate  ;  and  this  was,  that  hereafter  he 
would  form  no  resolution  at  all. 

Thus  gay,  bright,  joyous,  with  a  governing  sentiment  of  duty  which 
he  did  not  consistently  follow  out  in  conduct,  William  glided  on  through 
the  first  eighteen  months  of  his  college  career.  He  knew,  that,  with- 
out strenuous  work,  he  was  sure  to  have  the  means  of  supporting  him- 
self in  a  life  of  intellectual  idleness  ;  because  his  indulgent  father  had 
made  a  fortune  in  a  hard,  vexatious,  and  continuous  life  of  intellectual 
labor. 

William's  career  as  an  historian  might  have  utterly  failed,  were  it 
not  for  a  calamity  which  at  first  seemed  to  make  him  a  hopeless 
invalid  for  life. 

The  students  of  Harvard  appear  to  have  been  a  rough  set  in  181 3. 
The  officers  of  the  college  had  left  the  dinner-hall  on  one  momentous 
day ;  and  the  students,  before  departing,  indulged  in  some  eccentric 
freaks.  Prescott  was  not  engaged  in  the  disturbance  ;  but,  as  he  was 
going  out  of  the  hall,  he  turned  his  head  to  see  what  was  going  on, 
when  a  large,  hard  piece  of  bread,  hurled  by  a  student  without  any 
reference  to  a  mark,  struck  his  left  open  eye,  and  he  fell  senseless. 
The  missile  not  only  destroyed  the  sight  of  the  eye,  but  produced  a 
concussion  of  the  brain.  For  weeks  Prescott  was  confined  to  his  bed. 
His  full,  ruddy  face  became  pale  and  shrunken,  his  whole  system  was 
reduced  to  a  pitiable  state  of  weakness  ;  but  his  mind  remained  clear, 
and  his  innate  cheerfulness  of  disposition  bore  him  triumphantly 
through  all  the  trials  of  his  illness. 

When  he  recovered,  he  returned  to  Harvard,  and,  with  the  one  eye 


304       COLLEGE  LLFE    OF  PRESCOTT  THE  HLSTORLAN. 

left  to  him,  prosecuted  his  studies  with  the  simple  resolution  to  gradu- 
ate respectably.  He  succeeded  in  establishing  his  rank  as  a  Greek 
and  Latin  scholar,  and  as  a  proficient  in  English  literature.  He  was 
chosen  by  his  class  a  member  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society,  then  a 
special  title  of  honor ;  and,  when  he  graduated,  he  was  selected  to  be 
one  of  the  "orators"  at  Commencement,  and  recited,  with  great  ap- 
plause, a  Latin  poem  on  Hope,  of  his  own  composition.  His  parents, 
who  idolized  their  ; on,  spread  a  great  tent  on  the  college-grounds,  and 
feasted  therein  five  hundred  guests,  all  gathered  to  congratulate  the 
successful  graduate,  and  to  show  their  respect  for  the  Prescott  family, 
which  eminently  deserved  to  be  respected. 

Up  to  this  time,  William  Prescott  had  exhibited  a  certain  levity  of 
character  which  was  considered  fatal  to  his  success  in  life.  The  stu- 
dent who  carelessly  threw  the  bit  of  hard  bread  which  embittered  the 
whole  of  Prescott's  life,  never  showed  the  least  compunction  for  his 
heedless  act.  During  Prescott's  severe  illness,  he  expressed  no  sym- 
pathy for  his  victim.  He  thought  that  Prescott  did  not  know  his 
assailant.  But  Prescott  did  know  him.  He  concealed  this  informa- 
tion from  his  most  intimate  friends ;  and  it  was  only  afterwards,  when 
he  was  suffering  from  the  worst  results  of  the  blow,  in  partial  blind- 
ness and  acute  rheumatic  pains,  that  he  had  an  opportunity  to  indulge 
in  a  truly  Christian  revenge. 

The  man  who  had  made  Prescott's  life  uncomfortable  was  in  need 
of  his  recommendation  to  make  himself  comfortable  for  life.  Prescott 
gave  it  cordially,  without  any  thought  of  the  injury  he  had  sustained 
from  the  culprit,  who  never  had  the  decency  to  express  the  slightest 
sympathy  for  the  sufferings  of  his  benefactor.  The  name  of  this  per- 
son has  been  charitably  suppressed  ;  but  the  act  of  Prescott,  in  thus 
making  the  fortune  of  the  man  who  had  so  cruelly  injured  him, 
deserves  to  be  remembered  as  a  signal  instance  of  Christian  virtue. 

The  wonder  of  Prescott's  career  as  an  historian,  shown  in  his  vic- 
tory over  obstacles  which  are  commonly  considered  insurmountable, 
attracted  the  sympathy  of  all  men  of  intellect  and  learning  in  the 
leading  countries  of  Europe,  —  Germany,  France,  and  Great  Britain. 
His  own  character  became  more  vigorous  as  he  cheerfully  submitted 
to  the  self-imposed  drudgery  of  research  into  historical  documents,  in 
obtaining  which  he  lavished  money  as  liberally  as  he  lavished  time, 
in  reducing  them  to  order.  His  histories  now  rank  among  the  classics 
of  American  literature. 

And  it  may  be  said,  in  conclusion,  that  those  favored  friends  and 


COLLEGE  LIFE    OF  PRESCOTT  THE  HISTORIAN.      305 

acquaintances  who  knew  him  personally  will  never  forget  the  beautiful 
simplicity  of  his  character,  the  modesty  with  which  his  hard-earned 
laurels  were  worn,  and  the  charming  courtesy  of  manner,  springing 
from  the  instinctive  kindliness  of  his  heart,  and  overflowing  on  rich 
and  poor  alike,  which  justly  entitled  him  to  be  considered  one  of  the 
finest  gentlemen  of  his  time. 


NATHANIEL   PARKER   WILLIS. 


By   JAMES    PARTON. 

IN   an  old   Boston  newspaper,  published   during  the  early,  anxious 
months   of    the   war   of    1812,    this   advertisement    may   still    be 
read  :  — 

"  New  Printing-Office.  Nathaniel  Willis,  having  returned  to  this  his  native  town, 
and  purchased  an  entire  new  assortment  of  printing  materials,  respectfully  solicits 
a  share  of  the  patronage  at  his  office,  Exchange  Building,  Devonshire  Street.  Print- 
ing in  its  various  branches  will  be  executed  with  neatness,  accuracy,  and  despatch. 
In  the  press,  and  shortly  will  be  published,  '  Redemption,'  a  poem  in  eight  books,  by 
Joseph  Swain  of  Walworth,  England.  Also  will  soon  be  published  a  '  Guide  to  Christ,' 
composed  for  the  use  of  young  Ministers  and  Enquirers  on  their  Way  to  Zion.  By 
the  Rev.  Solomon  Stoddard  of  North  Hampton  Wanted,  an  apprentice  to  the 
printing  business." 

His  son,  Nathaniel  P.,  born  in  Portland  in  1806,  was  then  six  years 
of  age,  —  a  pretty,  captivating  child,  with  an  abundance  of  auburn 
curls,  such  as  mothers  dote  upon 

The  business  and  the  boy  grew  together  for  some  years,  when  an 
event  occurred  of  very  great  importance,  which  I  know  not  how  prop- 
erly to  relate  in  a  few  words.  In  the  house  of  Nathaniel  Willis  the 
great  subject  of  thought  and  conversation  was  religion,  and  religion 
of  the  old-fashioned  Orthodox  type.  The  family  attended  Park-street 
Church,  which  saucy  Unitarian  boys  of  the  period  called  Brimstone 
Corner.  The  Park-street  boys,  on  their  part,  were  not  over  respect- 
ful to  sons  of  Unitarians.  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  was  one  of  these ; 
and,  in  later  years,  our  poet  had  no  recollection  of  him,  except  that 
he  was  "one  of  the  boys  whose  fathers  were  Unitarians." 

When  this  boy  was  about  twelve  years  of  age,  there  was  a  famous 
revival  at  Park-street  Church,  the  meetings  of  which  he  attended. 
His  susceptible  nature  was  powerfully  wrought  upon,  and  he  joined 
the  church. 

306 


NATHANIEL  PARKER    WILLIS.  307 

As  he  grew  toward  maturity,  his  personal  attractions  became  more 
remarkable.  With  an  uncommonly  tall,  symmetrical  form,  he  had  a 
blooming  countenance,  and  a  certain  style  in  his  bearing  and  demeanor 
which  is  sometimes  called  "aristocratic,"  but  which  is,  in  fact,  more 
often  seen  in  the  offspring  of  workingmen  than  of  lords.  It  results 
from  physical  conditions,  which  the  ordinary  industrial  life  of  man 
favors  quite  as  much  as  the  life  of  ease  and  luxury. 

He  began  now  to  frequent  the  literary  and  elegant  circles  of  Bos- 
ton, where  he  was  much  admired  and  caressed.  Doubtless  the  persons 
composing  those  circles  were  virtuous  and  honorable,  but  the  restraints 
of  Park  Street  were  not  known  among  them  ;  and  we  can  all  easily 
understand  how  his  agreeable  associates  gradually  gave  him  a  relish 
for  social  pleasures,  particularly  for  the  drama  and  the  dance.  With- 
out dwelling  on  this  change,  I  will  merely  say  that  his  new  tastes 
gained  the  ascendency,  and  estranged  him  from  his  early  principles. 

Meanwhile,  it  began  to  be  whispered  about  that  this  elegant  stu- 
dent at  the  Latin  School  was  a  poet  also.  Scraps  of  verse,  in  his  neat 
and  careful  hand,  were  found  ;  and  one  day,  when  he  was  about  six- 
teen, he  sent  his  mother  a  little  poem,  addressed  to  herself,  which  was, 
at  least,  very  affectionate  in  tone,  and  harmonious  to  the  ear.  To  the 
end  of  his  long  life  of  nearly  ninety  years,  his  father  preserved,  in  an 
old  scrap-book,  the  first  prose  composition  of  the  lad  that  was  ever 
printed.  It  was  in  the  form  of  a  contribution  to  his  father's  paper, 
"The  Boston  Recorder,"  and  was  entitled,  "A  Hint  to  the  Ladies." 
He  wrote  in  the  character  of  an  old  gentleman,  who  was  in  the  habit 
of  giving  up  his  seat  to  ladies  in  church  and  lecture-rooms.  This  prac- 
tice, it  seems,  led  to  an  inconvenience ;  for,  when  it  came  time  to  take 
the  collection,  the  seats  would  be  occupied  by  ladies  who  had  no  money 
with  them,  and  hence  the  politeness  of  the  gentlemen  robbed  the  con- 
tribution-box.    The  imaginary  old  gentleman  proposed  a  remedy. 

"  Let  every  lady,  who  comes  to  a  meeting  for  charity,  come  prepared  to  give 
something,  and  thus  make  some  remuneration  for  the  loss  occasioned  to  the  society 
by  the  acquisition  of  her  seat.  Let  it  not  be  given  any  more  as  a  reason  for  a  small 
contribution,  that  the  house  was  filled  with  ladies.'''' 

This  idea  was  humorously  expanded  in  an  article  of  considerable 
length,  which  shows  gleams  of  the  future  journalist.  It  was  just  the 
kind  of  communication  that  an  editor  of  the  period  was  glad  to  get. 

At  an  early  age  he  went  from  the  Boston  Latin  School  to  Yale 
College  ;  and  there  it  was  that  he  became  famous.     I  do  not  think  that 


308  NATHANIEL  PARKER    WILLIS. 

he  was  ever  a  laborious  student,  nor  even  a  great  reader.  He  had  little 
taste  for  the  acquisition  of  knowledge,  and  little  curiosity  even  to  know 
what  poets  and  authors  had  done  in  the  days  before  him.  In  fact,  men 
who  produce  literature  are  not  apt  to  care  very  much  for  the  literature 
of  other  men  and  times.  But  he  was  always  scribbling ;  and  one  day 
he  sent  off  to  his  father's  paper  in  Boston,  a  poem  on  the  "  Sacrifice 
of  Abraham,"  to  which  he  appended  the  signature  of  Roy.  It  began 
thus : — 

"  Morn  breaketh  in  the  East.     The  purple  clouds 

Are  putting  on  their  gold  and  violet, 

To  look  the  meeter  for  the  sun's  bright  coming. 

Sleep  is  upon  the  waters  and  the  wind ; 

And  Nature,  from  the  wavy  forest  leaf 

To  her  majestic  master,  sleeps." 

It  was  certainly  an  extraordinary  production  for  a  youth  of  twenty 
years ;  though  it  is  not  in  the  Oriental  manner,  and  still  less  in  the 
spirit  of  the  story  as  related  in  the  Bible.  It  attracted  immediate  and 
general  attention.  It  was  copied  everywhere,  and  praised  by  almost 
every  one.  A  long  series  of  poems,  in  a  similar  strain,  and  with  the 
same  signature,  followed  this  production,  each  of  which  appeared  to 
increase  the  reputation  of  the  young  poet.  There  was  a  poem  on 
"The  Leper,"  on  "Absalom,"  on  "David's  Grief  for  his  Child,"  on 
"The  Baptism  of  Christ,"  on  "The  Widow  of  Nain,"  and  others,  many 
of  which  soon  got  into  the  school-books,  and  became  familiar  to  two 
generations  of  young  lovers  of  poetry. 

In  college,  too,  he  won  a  prize  of  fifty  dollars  offered  for  the  best 
poem  by  the  publisher  of  a  gift-book ;  and  no  sooner  had  he  gradu- 
ated, than  he  found  publishers  desirous  to  employ  his  pen.  Peter 
Parley  engaged  him  to  edit  periodicals  ;  and  he  attempted  himself  to 
found  a  magazine,  "  The  American  Monthly,"  which,  however,  did  not 
succeed. 

Sixty  years  ago,  when  N.  P.  Willis  came  upon  the  stage  of  life, 
literature  offered  no  safe  and  good  career;  and  far  better  would  it  have 
been,  perhaps,  if  this  gifted  young  man  had  chosen  another  profession 
to  live  by,  and  looked  to  literature  for  relief  and  recreation.  Lured 
on  by  the  dazzling  popularity  of  his  youthful  productions,  he  made  his 
way  to  New  York,  where  he  formed  a  connection  with  George  P. 
Morris,  editor  of  a  literary  weekly,  called  "The  Mirror,"  which  was 
then  struggling  for  life. 

Like  all  other  Americans,  especially  young  Americans,  and,  above 


NATHANIEL   PARKER    WILLIS. 


309 


all,  Americans  addicted  to  literature,  he  longed  for  Europe.  It  also 
occurred  to  his  practical  and  prudent  partner,  that  this  young  man 
could  write  from  Europe  extremely  taking  letters  for  "The  Mirror." 
The  grand  difficulty  was  to  raise  the  money  to  get  him  across  the 
ocean,  and  to  keep  him  going  while  he  was  there.     I  have  often  heard 


Nathaniel  Parker   Willis. 


the  editor  of  "The  Mirror"  relate,  in  his  hearty,  jovial  way,  the  mani- 
fold troubles  they  had  in  raising  the  five  hundred  dollars  which  was 
deemed  the  smallest  sum  that  would  answer  for  a  beginning.  This 
amount  was  the  capital  upon  which  the  young  poet  set  up  in  the  busi- 
ness of  a  traveller,  and  his  editor  agreed  to  send  him  ten  dollars  each 
for  his  letters. 

Thus  provided,  he  set  sail  in  October,  1832,  being  then  twenty-six 
years  of  age,  in  a  packet-ship  bound  for  Havre.  He  began  to  earn 
his  ten  dollars  a  week  on  board  as  soon  as  he  had  recovered  from  his 


3IO  NATHANIEL  PARKER    WILLIS. 

seasickness ;  and  soon  his  letters  appeared  in  "The  Mirror,"  under  the 
very  happy  title  of  "  Pencillings  by  the  Way."  The  very  first  letter 
proved  the  wisdom  of  the  editor  in  sending  him  to  the  other  side  of  the 
ocean;  for  such  a  paper  as  "The  Mirror,"  which  aimed  and  professed 
to  give  only  the  pleasing  and  prosperous  aspects  of  life,  no  letters 
could  be  better  than  these  most  graphic  and  elaborate  "Pencillings." 

At  this  day  they  have  something  of  the  interest  of  a  histrionic 
performance,  which  is  highly  comic  to  one  who  has  been  behind  the 
scenes.  Here  was  a  young  American,  rubbing  along  through  Europe 
on  the  slenderest  resources,  eking  out  his  weekly  revenue  by  an  occa- 
sional poem  or  story,  but  always  in  mortal  fear  of  coming  to  the  bot- 
tom of  his  purse ;  and  all  the  time  he  wrote  in  the  tone  and  style  of 
a  young  prince,  conveying  the  impression  that  castles  and  palaces, 
chariots  and  horses,  and  all  the  splendors  of  aristocratic  life,  were  just 
as  familiar  to  him  as  the  air  he  breathed. 

He  spent  four  or  five  years  abroad,  during  which  he  saw,  as  Goethe 
says,  "what  his  eye  took  with  it  the  means  of  seeing."  He  saw  the 
outside  of  its  gay  and  splendid  life,  and  this  he  described  in  his  "  Pen- 
cillings "  with  a  vividness  and  grace  which  have  rarely  been  equalled. 
I  can  hardly  conceive  of  any  thing  better  of  its  kind  than  the  letters 
in  which  he  describes  his  visit  to  the  castle  of  the  Duke  of  Gordon  in 
Scotland.  If  they  give  but  the  brilliant  aspect,  it  was  because  the 
writer  was  completely  bewitched  with  that  sumptuous  and  elegant 
existence.  He  was  under  a  spell  which  blinded  him  to  the  true  nature 
of  what  he  looked  upon,  and  caused  him  to  give  a  report  of  it  which 
has  misled,  in  some  degree,  the  American  people  ever  since.  The 
"  Pencillings,"  however,  were  delicious  to  the  readers  of  that  time  ;  and 
they  have  by  no  means  yet  lost  their  charm. 

His  connection  with  George  P.  Morris  lasted  to  the  end  of  his 
days.  For  many  years  they  conducted,  with  considerable  success, 
the  "  Home  Journal,"  which  aimed  to  report  and  describe  the  graceful 
and  pleasing  side  of  civilization,  particularly  what  is  called  "Society." 
It  was  a  legitimate  field  of  enterprise.  It  is  interesting  to  the  toiling, 
anxious  sons  of  men  to  be  told  what  a  pretty  and  interesting  thing  life 
is  to  people  who  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  make  it  pretty  and  inter- 
esting. I  think  if  I  were  a  cobbler  in  an  open-air  stall,  or  kept  a  pea- 
nut-stand in  the  streets,  I  should  like  to  be  informed,  once  a  week,  that 
there  are  people  in  the  world  to  whom  life  is  pleasing,  graceful,  clean, 
abundant,  and  full  of  charm.  If  only  one  family  in  the  world  were 
able  to  live  in  a  lofty  and  beautiful  manner,  free  from  corroding  cares 


NATHANIEL  PARKER    WILLIS.  311 

and  narrowing  frugalities,  I  should  like  to  be  able,  through  the  magic 
of  literature,  to  enjoy  the  spectacle  of  their  happiness. 

So  I  think  the  aim  of  the  "  Home  Journal "  was  legitimate ;  and 
there  will  always  be  room  for  such  a  periodical  in  a  civilized  country, 
if  it  is  conducted  in  a  humane,  manly,  and  democratic  spirit. 

During  the  last  fifteen  years  of  the  life  of  this  literary  artist,  his 
powers  were  much  impaired  by  an  incurable  malady,  which  brought 
him  to  a  premature  grave  in  1867,  when  he  was  but  sixty-one  years  of 
age. 

In  the  library  catalogues  we  find  a  long  list  of  works  attributed  to 
his  pen.  Most  of  these  are  volumes  made  up  from  his  ceaseless  con- 
tributions to  magazines  and  to  his  own  journal.  Of  these,  the  "Pen- 
cillings  by  the  Way "  have  still  an  interest  for  us  ;  and  they  may, 
perhaps,  be  read  by  posterity.  The  volume  of  his  poems,  and  that 
alone,  enjoys  considerable  popularity. 

For  the  benefit  of  young  writers,  I  may  add  that  Mr.  Willis  never 
slighted  his  work,  but  bestowed  upon  every  thing  he  did,  even  upon 
slight  and  transient  paragraphs,  the  most  careful  labor,  making  endless 
erasures  and  emendations.  On  an  average,  he  erased  one  line  out  of 
every  three  that  he  wrote ;  and,  on  one  page  of  his  editorial  writing, 
there  were  but  three  lines  left  unaltered.  He  wrote  very  legibly,  too, 
and  gave  no  printer  cause  to  complain  of  him.  Even  his  erasures 
were  made  with  a  certain  wavy  elegance,  and  done  so  effectually  that 
no  one  could  make  out  what  had  been  written. 

I  said  to  him  once  that  he  had  been  "  born  on  the  wrong  side  of 
the  Atlantic."  He  seemed  better  adapted  to  a  more  picturesque  civ- 
ilization than  ours,  and  had  little  relish  for  the  plain  and  strenuous  life 
of  his  countrymen. 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE'S   COLLEGE 

DAYS. 


By  G.   P.  LATHROP. 

IN  the  month  of  October,  1820,  a  tall  boy  of  sixteen,  with  a  hand- 
some, sensitive  face,  long  locks,  and  clear,  lustrous  gray  eyes,  was 
at  work  at  a  desk  in  the  office  of  a  great  line  of  stage-coaches  in  the 
ancient  town  of  Salem,  Mass.  The  office  was  that  of  William  Man- 
ning. The  young  book-keeper  was  his  nephew,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne, 
destined  to  win  fame  as  the  greatest  and  most  original  American  writer 
of  romance,  —  a  fame  which  has  spread  into  many  countries,  carried 
by  translations  or  reprints  of  "  The  Scarlet  Letter,"  the  "  Twice-Told 
Tales,"  "  The  Marble  Faun,"  and  others  of  his  books.  Of  the  other 
books,  perhaps  the  reader  is  most  familiar  with  the  "  True  Stories," 
from  New-England  history ;  the  "  Wonder-Book,"  and  "  Tanglewood 
Tales." 

At  the  time  when  he  was  thus  writing  for  his  uncle  William,  he 
had  been  "fitting"  for  college  about  seven  months.  Getting  ready 
for  an  entrance  examination,  at  that  time,  was  rather  a  different  busi- 
ness from  the  complicated  process  of  going  through  a  preparatory 
school  for  Harvard  or  Yale  nowadays.  For  some  reason,  when  Haw- 
thorne began  his  ante-collegiate  studies,  he  left  school,  and  received 
instruction  from  one  of  the  lawyers  of  Salem.  I  suppose  going  to 
college  was  such  a  momentous  thing  then,  that  a  busy  lawyer  felt  it 
to  be  more  or  less  his  duty  to  superintend  the  young  man's  studies ; 
and  so  the  future  novelist  used  to  get  his  lessons  at  home,  and  recite 
to  Mr.  Oliver  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning.  They  were  not  afraid 
of  getting  up  early !  Afterwards,  at  certain  times  of  the  day,  the  stu- 
dent had  his  work  to  do  in  the  office  ;  and,  apparently  not  satisfied 
with  these  employments,  he  amused  himself  by  printing  with  the  pen 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE'S   COLLEGE  DAYS.         313 

a  little  mimic  newspaper,  called  "  The  Spectator,"  which  he  issued 
once  a  week.  It  was  certainly  one  of  the  cheapest  papers  ever  pub- 
lished, costing  only  half  a  cent  a  copy  ;  but  its  list  of  subscribers  evi- 
dently was  not  large  enough  to  encourage  such  generosity,  for  only  a 
few  numbers  were  produced. 

The  editor,  moreover,  had  a  way  of  poking  fun  at  himself,  very 
unlike  the  grandeur  and  seriousness  of  editors  on  a  large  scale ;  and 
perhaps  this  was  a  disadvantage  to  him.  In  the  first  number,  he  pre- 
dicted its  fate  in  these  words  :  "  It  may  pine  in  obscurity,  neglected 
and  forgotten  by  those  with  whose  assistance  it  might  become  the 
Pride  and  Ornament  of  our  Country."  How  little  did  the  boy  who 
wrote  that  sentence  foresee  that  his  works  of  fiction  would  one  day 
become  what  he  jestingly  hinted  that  his  newspaper  might  grow  to  be! 
Nevertheless,  he  already  had  a  pretty  clear  idea  what  he  wanted  to 
do  in  life.  He  had  written  to  his  mother  that  he  did  not  want  to  be 
a  doctor,  to  live  by  men's  diseases ;  nor  a  minister,  to  live  by  their 
sins  ;  nor  a  lawyer,  to  live  by  their  quarrels.  "  So,  I  don't  see  that 
there  is  any  thing  left  for  me  but  to  be  an  author,"  he  concluded. 
And  then  he  asked  the  prophetic  question,  "  How  would  you  like, 
some  day,  to  see  a  whole  shelf-ful  of  books  written  by  your  son,  with 
'  Hathorne's  '  Works  '  printed  on  the  back  of  them  ?  " 

He  had  written  verse  too  ;  for,  in  a  letter  to  one  of  his  sisters,  he 
says,  "  I  have  almost  given  up  writing  poetry.  No  man  can  be  a  poet 
and  a  book-keeper  at  the  same  time."  A  very  sensible  remark  this  ; 
and  when  you  hear  Samuel  Rogers,  the  banker-poet,  and  our  own 
Halleck,  cited  as  instances  to  the  contrary,  remember  that  we  shall 
never  know  how  much  they  failed  to  do  in  literature,  owing  to  the 
energy  spent  by  them  in  business. 

Hawthorne  had  been  a  great  reader  for  his  age.  His  chief  favorite 
among  books  was  Bunyan's  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  ; "  and  he  had  taken 
great  interest  in  Shakspeare,  Milton,  Pope,  Thomson,  and  Rousseau. 
A  year  before  he  went  to  college,  he  had  read  all  of  Scott's  novels, 
except  "  The  Abbot,"  and  wished  he  had  them  to  read  again. 
Next  to  these,  he  liked  Godwin's  "Caleb  Williams."  It  maybe  no- 
ticed that  all  these  books  are  of  the  imaginative  order,  and  he  was 
very  frank  in  expressing  his  distaste  for  a  book  when  he  thought  it 
dry.  Even  Hume's  "  History  of  England"  he  pronounced  "so  abom- 
inably dull,"  during  his  freshman  year,  that  he  gave  it  up.     Here  let 

1  The  family  name  was  then  spelled  Hathorne. 


3 H         NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE'S   COLLEGE  DAYS. 

me  say  that  he  probably  began  at  the  beginning,  in  which  case  his 
judgment  of  its  dulness  was  correct ;  but  he  missed  some  fine  pas- 
sages by  not  looking  farther.  Yet  although  he  was  so  fond  of  fiction, 
and  wished  to  be  a  writer,  he  had  some  hesitation  about  going  to  col- 
lege. Nathaniel  Hawthorne's  father  had  died  when  his  son  was  only 
four  years  old,  and  the  boy's  uncles  had  been  very  kind  to  his  mother 
and  sisters  and  himself.  His  rncle,  Robert  Manning,  was  going  to 
defray  his  expenses  at  Bowdoin  College  ;  and,  at  times,  it  troubled  the 
young  man  to  think  that  he  must  continue  to  depend  on  others  for  his 
support  four  years  longer.  This  was  a  feeling  which  we  must  all 
respect,  and  yet  it  will  be  agreed  that  he  acted  wisely  in  finally 
accepting  his  uncle's  offer. 

In  that  month  of  October,  1821,  with  which  I  began  this  narrative, 
he  wrote  to  his  sister,  "  I  do  not  think  I  shall  ever  go  to  college." 
Perhaps,  when  he  penned  that  sentence,  he  was  longing  to  return  to 
the  beautiful  region  of  Raymond,  Me.,  where  he  had  lately  spent  a 
twelvemonth,  and  where  his  widowed  mother  was  then  living  with  her 
two  daughters.  But,  in  a  year  from  that  time,  he  underwent  the  mys- 
terious transformation  from  a  boy  to  a  collegian,  and  took  up  his  quar- 
ters at  Bowdoin,  in  the  little  village  of  Brunswick,  situated  on  the 
Penobscot  River,  only  about  thirty  miles  from  Raymond.  He  entered 
the  class  which  was  to  graduate  in  1825,  of  which  the  poet  Longfellow, 
and  the  famous  preacher  Cheever,  and  John  S.  C.  Abbott,  the  popular 
author  of  books  for  young  people,  were  also  members.  This  class  has 
since  been  recognized  as  the  most  illustrious  one  ever  graduated  at 
Bowdoin ;  and  whoever  has  not  read  Longfellow's  poem,  "  Morituri 
Salutamus,"  read  at  the  fiftieth  re-union  of  its  surviving  members, 
should  lose  no  time  before  making  acquaintance  with  that  interesting 
composition.  Franklin  Pierce,  who  became  President  of  the  United 
States  in  1852,  was  in  the  next  class  above  Hawthorne,  but  became 
one  of  his  two  most  intimate  friends.  The  other  was  Horatio  Bridge, 
whose  father  was  a  large  land-owner  in  Maine.  Hawthorne  saw  very 
little  of  the  other  students,  except  in  recitations,  and  in  his  college 
society ;  or,  perhaps  it  would  be  more  proper  to  say,  they  saw  very 
little  of  him.  For  I  think  he  must  even  then  have  been  observing 
people  with  that  keenness  for  studying  human  nature  which  he  after- 
wards used  to  such  good  purpose  ;  and,  in  fact,  only  three  years  after 
graduating,  he  published  his  first  novel,  "  Fanshawe,"  in  which  it  is 
easy  to  see  that  the  college-scenes  had  been  arranging  themselves  in 
his  mind  as  material  for  romance. 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE'S   COLLEGE  DAYS. 


3*5 


He  was,  at  this  time,  a  tall,  strong,  athletic  young  man,  fond  of 
outdoor  sports,  but  exceedingly  shy.  He  entered  the  Athenaean 
Society, — a  literary  body,  composed  of  students,  in  which  he  took  an 
active  part ;  and  there  still  exists  a  Latin  essay  of  some  merit  which 
he  read  there  in  his  junior  year.     His  classmate,  Longfellow,  entered 


Hawthorne  and  his  Home. 


the  rival  literary  society,  between  which  and  the  Athenaean  there  was 
a  lively  competition  and  a  severe  separation  ;  so  that  the  two  youths 
who  were  to  bring  the  most  renown  to  the  class  in  after-years,  saw 
little  of  each  other.  But  Longfellow  used  to  recall  how  Hawthorne 
would  rise  in  the  recitation-room,  standing  slightly  sidewise, — an 
attitude  due  to  his  constitutional  shyness,  —  and  read  from  the  Roman 
classics  translations  which  had  a  peculiar  elegance  and    charm.     He 


316         NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE'S   COLLEGE  DAYS. 

was  evidently  not  content  with  a  bald  rendering  of  the  original,  but 
threw  into  his  version  of  the  Latin  peculiar  beauties  of  English  style. 

Hawthorne  boarded,  with  several  others,  at  a  house  in  the  village 
which  used  to  have  the  peculiarity  of  a  staircase  going  up  to  the  sec- 
ond story  on  the  outside  of  the  building.  There  is  not  much  to  tell 
about  his  way  of  life  there  ;  because  the  Bowdoin  students  —  even  the 
most  sociable  of  them  —  passed  very  quiet  days,  quite  free  from  the  ex- 
citements of  modern  colleges,  and  with  few  peculiar  customs,  —  unless 
the  "rope-pull"  and  the  "hold-in"  were  in  vogue  at  that  time.  The 
rope-pull  is  a  rough  but  thorough  method  of  testing  the  strength  of 
the  freshman  and  sophomore  classes.  Both  parties  take  hold  of  the 
ends  of  a  long  rope,  and  tug  away  at  them  as  hard  as  they  can.  The 
sophomores  generally  win  :  but,  if  this  experiment  was  tried  with 
the  class  of  1825,  I  think  they  must  have  found  Hawthorne  a  hard 
man  to  conquer ;  for  he  was  physically  strong,  and  his  resolution  is 
shown  in  the  persistence  with  which  he  followed  the  literary  profession 
for  eighteen  years  before  he  gained  recognition. 

The  hold-in  was  another  Bowdoin  custom  of  the  same  sort.  When 
the  students  held  meetings  in  one  of  the  college-buildings,  the  sopho- 
mores would  form  around  the  door  en  ^diclon  (as  military  men  would 
say),  and  try  to  prevent  the  freshmen  from  getting  out. 

In  his  studies,  Hawthorne  soon  gained  a  reputation  for  English 
composition.  One  of  the  professors  who  taught  him,  writes,  more  than 
fifty  years  afterwards,  "  His  themes  were  written  in  the  sustained, 
finished  style  that  gives  to  his  mature  productions  an  inimitable 
charm."  Professor  Newman,  who  had  charge  of  this  branch,  was  often 
so  struck  with  the  beauty  of  these  compositions,  that  he  would  read 
them  to  his  family  in  the  evening.  But  the  youthful  author  himself 
was  very  diffident  about  them.  Professor  Packard  says,  "The  recol- 
lection is  very  distinct  of  Hawthorne's  reluctant  step  and  averted  look 
when  he  presented  himself  at  the  professor's  study,  and  submitted  a 
composition  which  no  man  in  his  class  could  equal." 

It  has  been  well  remarked,  that  genius  in  literature  gives  men  a 
strong  feminine  element ;  and  what  I  have  just  quoted  reminds  me 
that  Longfellow  says  it  was  like  talking  to  a  woman  to  converse  with 
Hawthorne,  so  great  was  his  delicacy  of  mind  and  gentle  sensitiveness. 
Yet  it  must  be  well  understood  that  this  gentleness  was  united  with 
firm,  manly  qualities,  and  even  a  certain  amount  of  wildness.  But  the 
wildness,  after  all,  was  very  innocent.  He  used  to  spend  some  of 
the  study-hours    in  picking  blueberries  with  his  friend  Bridge  under 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE'S   COLLEGE  DAYS.         317 

the  pine-trees  which  still  stand  in  a  grove  behind  the  college-buildings, 
and  was  fond  of  trout-fishing,  shooting,  and  "watching  the  great  logs 
as  they  tumbled  along  the  current  of  the  Androscoggin."  Those  log- 
jams, by  the  way,  occur  nowadays,  too,  and  are  very  exciting  things  ; 
and  the  French-Canadians,  employed  in  factories  at  Brunswick,  go  out 
into  the  river  to  try  to  save  some  of  the  logs,  for  which  they  get  fifty 
cents  each.     Every  year  several  lives  are  lost  in  this  dangerous  work. 

The  village  of  Brunswick  stands  on  high  ground  above  the  river, 
which  is  crossed  by  a  covered  bridge  that  goes  zigzag  from  bank  to 
bank,  resting  on  rocky  ledges  that  rise  out  of  the  water,  and  making 
a  very  picturesque  object  in  the  scene.  Salmon  are  caught  from  the 
river :  and,  in  old  days,  they  used  to  be  so  plenty,  that  apprentices  in 
Brunswick  would  make  it  a  condition  with  their  masters  that  they  were 
not  to  have  salmon  more  than  three  times  a  week ;  for  otherwise 
they  would  have  been  fed  with  that  delectable  fish  the  whole  time, 
which  would  have  been  too  much  of  a  good  thing. 

The  village  itself  is  on  two  sides  of  a  broad  street  running  at  right 
angles  with  the  river,  and  having  a  broad  mall  in  the  centre,  which,  in 
Hawthorne's  time,  was  a  sort  of  swamp.  Here,  too,  stood  the  tall 
church-spire,  from  which  highways  and  railroads  all  around  here  have 
been  laid  out,  so  prominent  was  it ;  but  this  was  blown  down  in  a 
heavy  storm  a  year  or  two  ago.  The  broad  street,  in  those  days,  con- 
tinued in  a  bee-line  down  to  Casco  Bay,  which  is  only  a  few  miles  dis- 
tant, and  was  called  "sixteen-rod  road,"  from  its  being  sixteen  rods 
broad  all  the  way.  I  have  no  doubt  Hawthorne  frequently  walked 
down  it ;  for  his  father  and  other  ancestors  had  been  seafaring  men, 
and  he  was  extremely  fond  of  the  ocean. 

While  he  was  in  college,  his  friend  Pierce  got  up  a  military  com- 
pany, which  he  joined  (military  drill  is  now  a  regular  part  of  the 
course  at  Bowdoin) ;  and  the  future  general  of  the  Mexican  war,  and 
President  of  the  States,  put  the  dreamy,  embryo  novelist  through 
the  tactics  with  great  vigor.  But  his  friend  Bridge  insisted  upon  it 
that  Hawthorne  was  to  be  a  writer  of  fiction,  and  the  world  knows 
now  that  he  was  right. 

It  is  not  known  that  he  made  any  serious  efforts  to  produce  stories 
while  in  college,  though  Longfellow  wrote  some  of  his  first  published 
poems  at  that  time.  Minds,  like  flowers,  blossom  at  different  seasons ; 
and  Hawthorne  did  not  mature  so  early  as  Longfellow.  But  he  did 
write  some  poems  during  his  college  course ;  and  a  few  verses  of  his, 
on  "  Moonlight,"  have  been  preserved. 


318         NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE'S   COLLEGE  DAYS. 

A  story  is  told  about  a  practical  joke  which  he  perpetrated  on  his 
uncle  Robert,  who  was  much  interested  in  fruit-raising.  A  new  kind 
of  insect,  injurious  to  pear-trees,  had  been  heard  of ;  and  Hawthorne 
exercised  his  fancy  in  writing  an  account  of  this  creature,  which,  of 
course,  he  had  never  seen.  The  article  was  published  in  a  paper  to 
which  he  sent  it,  and  Mr.  Manning  was  entirely  taken  in  by  it. 

Hawthorne  must,  at  times,  have  been  very  much  pre-occupied  ;  for 
it  is  known  that  he  had  the  habit  of  whittling  at  his  furniture  while  he 
studied  or  read,  and  that,  in  this  way,  he  had  cut  an  entire  table  into 
shavings  before  he  graduated.  I  have  in  my  possession  now  a  wooden 
rocking-chair  which  he  used  in  college ;  and  the  two  arms  are  gone, 
possibly  having  suffered  the  same  fate  with  the  vanished  table.  It  is 
a  plain,  much-worn  old  chair,  with  a  curved  back ;  but  to  sit  in  it, 
somehow  brings  on  an  imaginative  mood. 

One  reason  why  Hawthorne  did  not  get  credit  for  scholarship  was, 
that  he  was  too  shy  to  assert  himself.  In  spite  of  his  hidden  ambition, 
he  did  not  expect  much  of  the  future.  In  his  senior  year  he  wrote, 
"  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  shall  never  make  a  distinguished 
figure  in  the  world  ; "  and,  at  another  time,  he  was  much  annoyed 
because  a  visitor  at  Brunswick  had  praised  him  to  the  friends  at  home. 
His  rank  for  scholarship  entitled  him  to  a  "part"  at  Commencement ; 
but,  because  he  had  neglected  declamation,  the  rules  of  the  faculty 
prevented  his  speaking  on  that  occasion,  at  which  he  was  greatly  re- 
lieved, because  he  did  not  want  to  appear  in  public.  Retiring,  stead- 
fast in  his  few  attachments,  caring  little  for  popularity  and  the  crowd, 
or  for  the  appearance  of  brilliant  attainment,  so  long  as  he  knew  that 
the  reality  was  his,  —  thus  he  was  at  Bowdoin,  and  thus  he  remained. 

Lord  Bacon  says,  "A  man's  nature  runs  either  to  herbs  or  to 
weeds  :  therefore  let  him  seasonably  water  the  one,  and  destroy  the 
other."  It  cannot  be  doubted  that  Hawthorne  watered  the  herbs  in 
youth,  since  they  flowered  so  beautifully  afterwards.  But  he  chose 
his  own  way  of  doing  it.  If  he  now  and  then  neglected  the  regular 
studies,  he  did  so,  not  because  he  was  idle,  but  because  he  had  an  ear- 
nest purpose  with  regard  to  the  development  of  his  mind,  and  knew 
best  what  would  suit  this  purpose. 


THE  HOME  OF  J.  G.  WHITTIER. 


By    HEZEKIAH    BUTTERWORTH. 

THE  old  county  of  Essex,  Mass.,  is  fertile  in  suggestions  of  poetry. 
It  is  dotted  with  sunny  villages,  shady  farms,  landscapes  diver- 
sified with  pure,  clear  rivers,  and  landslopes  before  which  rolls  the 
broad,  open  sea.  Every  old  farmhouse  has  a  legend,  and  every  town 
its  quaint  bit  of  colonial  history  The  Merrimack,  that  industrious 
river,  goes  dimpling  through  it  to  the  sea,  shaded  in  summer  by 
wooded  hills,  and  reflecting  in  autumn  the  leafy  rubies  of  newly  cut 
timber-lands,  or  the  grand  forms  of  old  trees. 

"  Beautiful !  beautiful !  "  exclaimed  President  Washington,  in  his 
journey  to  Haverhill  in  1789,  as  his  eye  fell  on  the  sparkling  waters  of 
the  Merrimack.  "  Haverhill  is  the  pleasantest  village  I  ever  passed 
through." 

In  this  pleasant  old  New-England  town,  there  was  born,  in  1808,  a 
poet,  with  whose  ballads,  we  doubt  not,  our  readers  are  acquainted. 
He  is  a  descendant  of  an  old  Quaker  family,  which  settled  along  the 
banks  of  the  Merrimack  when  Haverhill  was  a  frontier  settlement,  and 
the  Indians  burned  its  houses,  and  carried  unhappy  Hannah  Duston 
into  a  long  captivity.  The  colonial  Whittiers,  refusing  the  protection 
of  the  garrison  in  these  perilous  times,  relied  upon  just  and  kind 
treatment  of  the  Indians  for  defence.  They  found  their  peace-prin- 
ciples, and  their  habit  of  dealing  justly  with  all  men,  a  more  sure 
defence  than  muskets  or  stockades.  The  family  used  to  hear  the 
Indians  at  the  windows  on  the  still  winter  nights,  and  occasionally 
would  see  a  red  face  and  fierce  eyes  at  the  window-pane.  But  though 
their  neighbors  were  murdered,  and  their  property  destroyed,  the 
Quakers  were  never  molested. 

The  poet's  early  home  was  an  ample  old  farmhouse  in  East  Haver- 
hill. As  you  may  read  about  it  in  "  Snow-Bound,"  it  need  not  be 
described  here.     In  recent   years  it  has  fallen  somewhat  into  decay, 

319 


320  THE  HOME    OF  J.    G.    WHITTJER. 

though  its  grand  old  trees  and  primitive  expression  have  been  partially 
preserved. 

The  poet,  when  quite  young,  was  sent  to  school  to  a  queer  old 
pedagogue,  who  received  pupils  in  a  room  in  his  own  house.  The 
teacher  did  not  succeed  in  governing  his  wife,  however  well  he  may 
have  governed  his  scholars.  Like  Oliver  Goldsmith,  who  gave  his 
pupils  gingerbread,  and  told  them  stories,  this  easy-going  man  adopted 
the  persuasive  method  of  preserving  order,  and  imparting  instruction. 

"  Through  the  cracked  and  crazy  wall 
Came  the  cradle-rock  and  squall, 
And  the  goodman's  voice  at  strife 
With  his  shrill  and  tipsy  wife, 
Luring  us  by  stories  old, 
With  a  comic  unction  told, 
More  than  by  the  eloquence 
Of  terse  birchen  arguments." 

The  young  scholar  had  few  books  of  poetry  in  his  early  years,  but 
Nature  was  to  him  a  continual  poem.  The  warm  grasp  of  friendship, 
the  blue  sky  of  spring,  and  the  changing  splendors  of  all, — these  were 
to  him  sources  of  poetic  inspiration.  He  was  a  mere  boy  when  he 
began  to  express  the  glowing  feelings  of  his  soul  in  verse.  One  day 
he  ventured  to  send  a  poem,  which  he  had  copied  in  blue  ink  on  some 
coarse  paper,  to  an  anti-slavery  journal,  called  the  "  Free  Press,"  pub- 
lished in  Newburyport.  The  editor  of  the  paper,  William  Lloyd  Gar- 
rison, found  the  poem  on  the  floor  of  his  office,  it  having  been  tucked 
under  the  door  by  the  postman.  His  first  impulse  was  to  throw  the 
manuscript  into  the  waste-basket ;  but,  being  a  conscientious  man,  he 
gave  it  a  reading  He  had  not  read  far  before  he  discovered  in  the 
lines  evidence  that  they  were  written  by  a  true  poet.  The  poem  ap- 
peared in  "The  Free  Press."  Other  poems  from  the  same  writer 
came  to  the  office,  and  they  impressed  Mr.  Garrison  so  favorably  that 
he  made  inquiries  of  the  postman  whence  they  came.  He  was  told 
that  they  probably  had  been  sent  by  a  farmer's  son  in  East  Haverhill. 

Mr.  Garrison,  thinking  that  he  ought  to  encourage  so  promising  a 
writer,  rode  over  to  East  Haverhill  to  call  on  his  new  contributor.  He 
found  him  at  work  with  his  father  on  the  farm.  The  young  man  ac- 
knowledged the  authorship  of  the  poems.  The  visit  of  the  editor 
must  have  been  a  happy  surprise  to  him,  for  appreciation  is  never  more 
stimulating  than  in  youth. 

Mr.  Whittier  began  life  as  a  teacher.     He  came  to  Boston  when 


THE  HOME    OF  J.    G.    WHITTIER. 


321 


about  twenty-one  years  of  age,  where  he  was  employed  editorially  on 
"The  New-England  Weekly."  Returning  to  Haverhill,  he  was  elected 
to  the  Massachusetts  Legislature,  and  afterwards  went  to  Philadelphia 
as  editor  of  "The  Freeman."  But  his  love  of  a  quiet  life  led  him  again 
to  the  Merrimack  ;  and  he  settled  in  the  rural  town  of  Amesbury, 
where  the  moral,  political,  and  pastoral  poems,  by  which  he  is  best 
known  to  the  world,  were  mostly  written.  His  home  is  a  plain,  neat 
house,  in  the  most  quiet 
part  of  the  town.  At  a 
little  distance  the  open 
country  stretches  in  front 
of  its  windows.  Near  it 
stands  a  Quaker  meeting- 
house, on  the  border  of  a 
growth  of  birch  and  pine, 
around  which  a  shady  road 
goes  winding  through  the 
light,  sandy  soil.  Not  far 
behind  it  rolls  the  Merri- 
mack through  hill-slopes 
variegated  with  glossy 
birches,  billowy  oaks,  and 
dark  clusters  of  laurels 
and  pines. 

For  the  last  few  years 
he  has  spent  most  of  his 
time  at  Oak  Knoll  in  Dan- 
vers,  Mass.,  the  attractive 
country-home  of  relatives. 
The  poet's  home  was,  for 
many  years,  in  charge  of  his  maiden  sister,  Elizabeth  H.  Whittier,  a 
woman  of  lovely  character,  who  fully  sympathized  with  her  brother  in 
his  literary  work.  It  is  said  that  he  was  accustomed  to  submit  to  her 
criticism  the  first  copies  of  whatever  he  wrote.  The  old  Quaker 
preachers,  anti-slavery  reformers,  and  many  eminent  writers,  used  to 
visit  the  Whittiers  at  this  time,  and  enjoy  the  cosey  hospitality  of  the 
sunny  rooms.  A  well-tilled  garden  blossomed  without,  household  pets 
added  to  the  charming  simplicity  within  ;  and  the  wooded  hills,  which 
enclosed  the  homestead  like  a  park,  rolled  away  in  the  distance  to  the 
busy  river  that  ran  to  the  sea. 


John   G.    Whittier. 


322 


THE  HOME    OF  J.    G.    WHITT1J.R. 


The  associations  of  Whittier's  poetry  are  almost  everywhere  to 
be  found  in  the  county  in  which  he  lives.  The  Merrimack,  which 
clasps  many  historic  towns  in  its  arm,  on  its  bending  way  to  the  sea, 
is  his  river  of  song.  Marblehead,  perhaps  the  quaintest  town  in 
America,  with  its  sea-worn  rocks,  and  its  lighthouses  flaming  at  even- 
ing above  the  silvery  lagoons  of  the  ocean,  is  the  scene  of  Skipper  Ire- 
son's  punishment.     Newburyport,  where  Whitefield's  coffin  may  still 

be  seen,  — 

"  Under  the  church  on  Federal  Street," 

is  the  scene  of  "The  Preacher."     The  curving  beaches  that  sweep  away 


Mr.    Whittier's  Birthplace. 


from  the  old  coast-towns  of  Gloucester,  Ipswich,  and  Marblehead,  are 
accurately  described  in  "The  Tent  on  the  Beach,"  and  in  other  poems. 
"The  Shoemakers,"  "The  Huskers,"  "The  Drovers,"  and  "The  Fish- 
ermen," are  subjects  of  poems  that  but  picture  familiar  scenes  in 
Amesbury,  and  in  the  neighboring  towns. 

Most  of  his  historical  ballads  are  associated  with  places  which  the 
old  inhabitants  point  out  to  the  stranger  who  visits  Essex  County,  and 
the  incidents  of  many  of  them  were  told  at  the  farmers'  firesides  a 


THE  HOME    OF  J.    G.    WHITTIER. 


323 


hundred  years  ago.  Like  the  brothers  Grimm  in  Germany,  the  poet 
has  collected  these  old  tales,  and  given  them  enduring  fame  by  clothing 
them  in  the  choicest  language. 

Mr.  Whittier  wears  the  silver  crown  of  seventy-eight  years.  His 
poems  are  among  the  aesthetic  treasures  of  every  intelligent  family,  as 
far  as  the  English  language  is  spoken.  They  are  recited  in  every 
school,  and  quoted  from  many  a  platform  and  pulpit.     Their  influences 


Oak  Knoll,    Dan  vers. 


range  widely,  and  always  for  good.  It  is  indeed  a  blessed  life  that 
multiplies  such  influences  among  mankind  !  "  His  poetry,"  says  one 
of  his  old  friends,  "burst  from  the  heart  with  the  fire  and  energy  of 
the  ancient  prophet ;  but  his  noble  simplicity  of  character  is  the 
delight  of  us  all." 


THE   CZAR,  ALEXANDER   II.,   IN   THE 
FIELD,   1877. 


By    ARCHIBALD    FORBES. 

THE  Romanoffs  have  always  been  fighting-men.  Peter  the  Great 
was  at  the  siege  of  Narva,  Alexander  I.  marched  across  Europe 
to  participate  in  the  overthrow  of  Napoleon,  Nicholas  burned  to  con- 
front the  enemies  of  Russia  in  the  Crimea,  and  the  late  Emperor 
crossed  the  Danube  with  the  march  of  invasion  of  Turkey  that  ended 
only  at  the  gates  of  Constantinople. 

But  the  position  of  Alexander  II.  in  the  field  was  somewhat  pecul- 
iar. He  was  not  the  commander-in-chief  of  the  great  hosts  which 
were  drawn  from  the  enthusiastic  masses  of  his  devoted  subjects. 
That  position  he  had  assigned  to  his  brother,  the  Grand  Duke  Nicholas. 
The  Emperor,  in  a  military  sense,  made  the  campaign  simply  as  an 
intensely  interested  spectator. 

His  life  on  campaign  was  a  life  of  strange  simplicity,  of  great 
seclusion,  always  of  deep  concern,  and  mostly  of  great  anguish.  He 
was  not  strictly  in  the  field  until  he  had  crossed  the  Danube  ;  but  for 
more  than  a  fortnight  he  lived  a  campaigning-life  in  a  little  country- 
house  overhanging  the  great  river,  a  few  rods  to  the  westward  of  the 
miserable  Roumanian  village  of  Simnitza.  He  himself  had  accommo- 
dation here  under  a  roof ;  but  most  of  his  numerous  entourage  dwelt 
in  tents  among  the  trees,  and  in  the  paddocks  adjoining.  Under  this 
canvas  roof,  members  of  the  imperial  family,  and  the  nobles  and  gen- 
erals, their  friends,  made  very  merry.  They  fiddled  when  Rome  was 
burning ;  but  the  Emperor  himself  was  scarcely  seen  outside  the  gates 
of  his  own  habitation,  save  to  visit  the  hospitals,  or  to  drive  to  a  point 
commanding  some  long  stretch  of  the  great  river.  He  always  trav- 
elled on  wheels.  I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  him  oftener  than 
twice  on  horseback  during  the  whole  campaign. 

324 


THE    CZAR,  ALEXANDER  II,  IN  THE  FIELD. 


325 


The  Russians,  indeed,  are  not  an  equestrian  people ;  that  is,  they 
do  not  ride  for  the  mere  love  of  riding.  It  was  nothing  uncommon 
for  a  general  to  lead  his  division  in  the  march  snugly  ensconced  in  a 
comfortable  birja. 

The  day  after  Gen.  Dragomiroff  had  carried  the  passage  of  the 
Danube  opposite  Simnitza,  the  Emperor  crossed  the  river  for  the  pur- 


Alexander  II. 


pose  of  visiting  Sistova,  the  Bulgarian  town  confronting  Simnitza,  and 
of  thanking,  in  person,  the  gallant  division  which  had  so  valiantly 
fought  its  way  across  the  great  river,  and  carried  the  heights  on  the 
other  side.  There  was  no  formal  review.  The  troops  were  too  widely 
dispersed  to  be  brought  together  for  that.  Yolchine's  brigade,  the  one 
that  had  crossed  first,  had  got  under  arms  as  the  Emperor  came  up 
from    the    river-side ;   and  Gens.  Dragomiroff   and  Yolchine  stood  in 


326  THE    CZAR,  ALEXANDER,   II,  IN  THE  FIELD. 

front  of  it,  along  with  the  young  Gen.  Skobeleff,  who  had  shown  his 
wonted  valor,  and  all  his  rare  powers  of  leadership,  in  the  action  of 
the  day  before. 

The  troops  replied  to  the  Emperor's  greeting  in  accents  which  were 
eloquent,  moved  by  an  impulse  of  absolute  adoration.  The  simple 
private  men  gazed  on  their  Czar  with  entranced  eyes  of  childlike  love 
and  awe. 

The  Emperor's  aspect  on  that  day,  when  as  yet  anxiety  and  ill- 
health  had  not  broken  him  down,  was  singularly  imposing.  A  man  of 
nearly  sixty,  he  looked  remarkably  young  for  his  age ;  for  the  long 
dark  mustache  hardly  showed  a  tinge  of  gray,  and  the  majestic  figure 
was  as  straight  as  a  pine.  He  looked  a  very  king  of  men,  as,  with 
soldierly  gait,  he  strode  up  to  Dragomiroff,  shook  him  by  the  hand, 
and  arrested  his  attempt  at  obeisance  by  clasping  him  in  a  hearty 
embrace. 

Yolchine  was  similarly  honored  ;  but  the  Czar  turned  away  from 
young  Skobeleff  with  a  frown,  for  that  brilliant  officer  had  been  re- 
called from  Central  Asia  under  a  cloud,  —  a  cloud  of  baseless  accusa- 
tion ;  and  the  opportunity  of  self-vindication  had  not  yet  offered.  Six 
weeks  later  the  Emperor  gave,  at  his  own  table,  the  toast  of  "  Skobe- 
leff, the  hero  of  Loftcha !  " 

Gourko  dashed  across  the  Balkans  on  that  gallant  but  abortive 
raid  of  his  ;  and  the  advance-guard  of  the  army,  to  the  command  of 
which  the  Czarewitch  was  appointed,  pushed  eastward  till  it  came 
within  sight  of  the  earthworks  which  the  Turks  had  thrown  up  around 
the  fortress  of  Rustchuk. 

The  Emperor  and  his  suite  crossed  the  Danube,  and  took  up  quar- 
ters in  a  farmyard  near  the  village  of  Paolo,  —  a  position  which  was 
fairly  central  for  receiving  intelligence  from  both  lines  of  advance,  and 
yet  within  easy  distance  of  the  bridge  across  the  river  at  Simnitza. 
At  this  time  the  Archduke  Nicholas  had  his  headquarters  at  Tirnova, 
up  at  the  foot  of  the  Balkans. 

Some  ten  days  later  the  imperial  headquarters  moved  farther  east- 
ward, into  the  little  town  of  Biela,  in  the  direct  rear  of  the  army  of 
the  Czarewitch.  At  Biela  the  headquarters  were  fixed  for  several 
weeks  in  the  enclosed  yard  of  a  dismantled  Turkish  house,  which  the 
Bulgarians  had  gutted  when  its  occupants  fled.  A  high,  wattled  fence 
surrounded  this  yard,  in  which  stood  a  few  willow-trees  that  afforded 
some  shade. 

The  bureaux  were  in  the  Turkish  house.     The  Emperor  lived  in 


THE    CZAR,  ALEXANDER   II,  IN  THE  FIELD.  327 

two  simple  officers'  tents,  communicating  with  each  other,  up  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  yard,  under  the  willow-trees.  In  the  centre  of  the  yard 
was  the  large  dining  marquee,  where  the  Emperor  took  his  meals 
along  with  the  officers  of  his  suite,  and  such  of  the  foreign  military 
attache's  as  were  not  with  the  headquarters  of  the  commander-in-chief. 

He  was  wont  to  breakfast  alone  in  his  own  tent,  where  he  worked 
all  the  morning  with  Milutin,  the  minister  of  war ;  Ignatieff,  the  dip- 
lomat ;  Adlerberg,  the  chamberlain  of  the  palace,  and  the  Emperor's 
foster-brother  ;  and  other  high  officials  who  solicited  interviews.  It 
must  be  remembered,  that  from  this  camp,  far  away  in  Bulgaria,  the 
Emperor  was  administering  the  affairs  of  a  huge  empire,  whose  capital 
was  several  thousand  miles  away. 

At  noon,  luncheon  was  served  in  the  great  marquee ;  and  all  the 
suite  was  wont  to  gather  in  the  yard  for  conversation  a  short  time  in 
advance.  The  Emperor  came  out  from  his  tent,  shaking  hands  with 
the  nearest  members  of  his  suite  as  he  passed  into  the  marquee.  His 
place  was  in  the  middle  of  the  right-hand  side  of  the  table,  with  Gen. 
Suwaroff  on  one  side,  and  Gen.  Milutin,  the  war  minister,  on  the  other; 
the  foreign  attache's  opposite. 

The  greatest  simplicity  prevailed  in  the  fare  served  at  the  imperial 
table,  and  champagne  was  used  only  on  great  occasions.  When  the 
time  of  coffee  came,  the  Emperor  gave  the  signal  for  smoking ;  and 
immediately  the  marquee  was  filled  by  a  cloud  of  cigarette-smoke.  He 
was  wont  to  talk  freely  at  table,  directing  much  of  his  conversation  to 
the  foreign  officers  opposite  to  him  ;  and  occasionally,  especially  when 
addressing  Col.  Wellesley,  the  British  representative,  his  tone  was  that 
of  grave  badinage. 

No  elaborate  precautions  were  taken  for  the  Emperor's  safety. 
Living  here  in  Biela,  in  the  midst  of  a  curiously  mixed  population  of 
wretched  Bulgarians  and  prowling  Turks,  his  only  guard  consisted  of 
a  handful  of  the  Imperial  Cossacks  of  the  guard  on  duty  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  yard.  He  drove  out  every  day,  attended  by  an  escort 
of  some  dozen  of  these  ;  and  he  would  walk  around  to  the  hospitals 
in  the  environs  of  the  little  town,  accompanied  but  by  a  single  com- 
panion. 

He  would  spend  an  hour  in  talking  with  the  poor  ailing  fellows  in 
the  wretched  hospitals,  where  his  presence  did  more  good  than  all  the 
efforts  of  the  doctors.  Once,  during  a  drive,  he  saw  a  batch  of  Turk- 
ish fugitives,  among  whom  were  many  women  and  children,  lurking  in 
a  wood.      He  at  once  went  among  them  ;  and,  by  assurances  of  protec- 


328  THE    CZAR,  ALEXANDER  II,  IN  THE  FIELD. 

tion,  he  succeeded  in  prevailing  on  them  to  return  to  their  homes  in 
Biela,  where  he  had  them  rationed  until  they  were  able  to  do  something 
for  themselves. 

After  the  Plevna  disaster  in  the  end  of  July,  and  Gourko's  retire- 
ment across  the  Balkans,  the  imperial  headquarters  were  moved  to  a 
village  called  Gorni  Studen,  about  equidistant  from  Plevna  and  from 
Tirnova,  at  the  foot  of  the  Balkans.  Biela  had  become  poisonous  by 
reason  of  an  utter  disregard  of  all  sanitary  precautions  ;  and  the  Em- 
peror had  been  ailing  from  low  fever,  rheumatism,  and  asthma,  —  the 
latter  his  chronic  malady. 

At  Gorni  he  abandoned  tent-life,  and  seldom  was  able  to  come  to 
the  general  table  in  the  marquee.  A  dismantled  Turkish  house  was 
fitted  up  for  him  after  a  fashion,  and  he  slept  in  a  tiny  cabin  with  mud 
walls  and  a  mud  floor.  It  was  in  this  house  where  I  had  an  interview 
with  him  when  I  came  back  in  August  from  the  Shipka,  with  the  good 
news  that  Radatski  was  holding  his  own  well  against  the  assaults  of 
Mehemet  Ali. 

I  never  saw  a  man  so  changed  from  the  early  days  at  Simnitza. 
He  was  gaunt,  worn,  and  haggard.  His  nerves  seemed  utterly  shat- 
tered. The  expression  in  his  eye  was  that  of  a  hunted  deer,  and  he 
gasped  for  breath  in  the  spasms  of  the  asthma  that  afflicted  him.  I 
left  him  with  the  conviction  that  he  certainly  would  not  break  the 
spell  that  consigned  every  Romanoff  to  the  grave  before  reaching  the 
age  of  sixty. 

There  was  something  wonderfully  pathetic  in  the  fervor  with  which 
he  grasped  at  the  expressed  belief  of  a  mere  unprofessional  neutral 
like  myself,  in  the  face  of  the  apprehensions  to  the  contrary  of  all 
about  him,  that  Radatski  would  make  good  the  tenure  of  his  position 
on  the  top  of  the  Shipka. 

Then  he  sent  me  across  to  the  headquarters  of  his  brother,  the 
Archduke  Nicholas,  to  repeat  to  that  commander  the  news  which  I 
had  brought.  The  Grand  Duke  asked  me  for  an  opinion  about  the 
best  way  to  hold  the  Shipka.  I  replied  that  the  most  advantageous 
plan  seemed  to  me  to  treat  it  as  a  great  forepost, — to  keep  an  army 
corps  about  Sistova,  and  detail  from  it  a  brigade  at  a  time  to  hold  the 
Shipka. 

"An  army  corps  !  "  cried  the  Grand  Duke.  "  My  life,  when  I  don't 
know  where  to  find  a  battalion  !  " 

The  Emperor  was  present  on  the  field  during  the  six  days'  struggle 
around  Plevna  in  the  September  of  the  war.     They  had  built  for  him, 


THE    CZAR,  ALEXANDER  II,  IN  THE  FIELD. 


,29 


on  a  little  eminence  at  a  safe  distance,  a  sort  of  lookout  place,  which 
covered  a  great  part  of  the  scene  of  action.  In  the  rear  of  this,  a  long 
table  was  spread  with  luncheon.  As  for  the  Emperor  himself,  after 
the  first  two  days,  he  neither  ate  nor  drank.     Anxiety  visibly  devoured 


The  Czar  in   the   Field. 

him.     He  could  not  be  restrained  from  leaving  the  observatorium,  and 
going  around  among  his  soldiers. 

I  saw  him  on  the  little  balcony  of  the  lookout  place  late  in  the 
afternoon  of  the  fifth  day  of  the  struggle,  as  he  stood  there,  gazing 
out  with  haggard,  eager  eyes  at  the  efforts  to  storm  the  great  Grivitca 
redoubt.  Assault  after  assault  had  been  delivered,  and  had  failed. 
As  the  Turkish  fire  combed  clown  his  Russians  as  they  strove  to 
struggle  up  the  slope,  slippery  already  with  Roumanian  blood,  the  pale 


330  THE    CZAR,  ALEXANDER  II,   IN  THE  FIELD. 

face  quivered,  and  the  tall  figure  winced  and  cowered.  As  he  stood 
there,  alone  and  self-centred,  he  was  a  spectacle  of  majestic  misery 
that  was  never  to  be  forgotten. 

After  Plevna  had  fallen,  the  Emperor  returned  to  St.  Petersburg, 
there  to  receive  a  reception,  the  like  of  which,  for  pure  intensity  of 
enthusiasm,  I  have  never  witnessed.  From  the  railway  station  he 
drove  straight  to  the  Kasan  Cathedral,  in  accordance  with  the  ancient 
custom.  People  had  spent  the  night  sleeping  on  its  marble  floor,  that 
they  might  be  sure  of  a  place  in  the  morning.  There  had  been  no 
respect  of  persons  in  the  admissions,  —  the  peasant  in  his  sheepskins 
stood  beside  the  soldier-noble,  whose  bosom  glittered  with  decorations. 
The  peasant-woman  and  the  princess  knelt  together  at  the  same 
shrine. 

When  the  Emperor's  advent  was  announced,  the  Archbishop  ad- 
vanced to  meet  him,  and  led  him  in  procession  up  the  great  central 
aisle.  The  Emperor  reached  the  altar,  bent  his  head,  and  kissed  the 
image  of  the  Virgin.  When  he  turned  to  leave  the  building,  the  wild- 
est enthusiasm  laid  hold  of  the  throng.  His  people  closed  in  about 
the  Czar,  till  he  had  no  power  to  move.  The  struggle  was  but  to 
touch  him,  or  even  the  hem  of  his  cloak ;  and  the  chaos  of  policemen, 
officers,  shrieking  women,  and  enthusiastic  peasants  swayed  and  heaved 
to  and  fro,  the  Emperor  in  the  centre,  pale,  his  lips  trembling  with 
emotion,  just  as  I  have  seen  him  when  his  troops  were  cheering  him 
on  the  battle-field.  It  took  him  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  force  his  way 
to  his  carriage  ;  and,  for  two  days  after,  St.  Petersburg  was  in  a  delirium 
of  loyalty. 


ADOLPHE   THIERS. 


ANONYMOUS. 

THE  long  career  of  Adolphe  Thiers,  the  famous  French  statesman, 
fifty  years  of  which  was  spent  in  public  life,  was  full  of  romantic 
incidents.  The  son  of  a  poor  locksmith  of  Marseilles,  his  energy  and 
talents  enabled  him  to  rise  to  the  highest  honors  which  France  could 
confer  upon  one  of  her  sons  ;  but  he  did  not  reach  this  height  of  fame 
and  power  without  passing  through  many  perils,  and  meeting  with 
many  stirring  adventures. 

His  pugnacious  disposition,  which  so  often  betrayed  itself  in  his 
after-years,  was  developed  in  him  in  early  boyhood.  At  school  he  was 
an  incorrigible  little  fellow,  always  nagging  his  teachers,  and  fighting 
with  his  fellow-scholars,  refusing  to  learn  his  lessons,  and  refusing  to 
obey  his  superiors.  Added  to  these  qualities  was  a  fondness  for 
mischief-making  and  practical  jokes. 

One  day  he  put  some  wax  on  his  teacher's  seat  in  school,  so  that, 
when  the  teacher  sat  down  upon  it,  he  found  himself  sticking  fast  to 
the  chair ;  and  he  could  not  get  up  again.  At  first  he  found  it  difficult 
to  discover  the  urchin  who  had  played  him  this  mischievous  trick  ;  but 
his  suspicions  soon  fell  upon  little  Adolphe  Thiers,  the  most  unruly  of 
all  his  scholars.  Thiers  was  at  once  marched  off  up-stairs,  put  into 
an  empty  room,  locked  in,  and  kept  there,  living  on  bread  and  water 
for  three  or  four  days. 

This  was  a  turning-point  in  his  life.  From  that  hour  he  became 
the  steadiest,  most  diligent,  most  brilliant,  and  most  submissive,  pupil 
in  the  school.  His  lessons  were  all  perfectly  learned,  he  stuck  close 
to  his  books,  and  went  to  the  head  of  his  classes,  and  staid  there.  For 
seven  years  in  succession  he  carried  off  the  highest  prizes  offered  to 
the  scholars.  France  owes  very  much  to  the  teacher  who  thus  con- 
verted Thiers  into  a  student  by  locking  him  up. 

Thiers  went  up  to  Paris,  and  there  became    a   newspaper  writer, 


33 2  ADOLPHE   THIERS. 

interesting  himself  in  politics,  and  becoming  a  popular  member  of  so- 
ciety. He  was  always  loitering  about  the  Palais  Bourbon,  where  the 
French  legislative  body  held  its  sittings,  and  used  to  gaze  reverently 
at  the  celebrated  men  whom  he  saw  going  in  and  out. 

One  day  Manuel,  a  noted  orator  of  the  Assembly,  made  a  furious 
attack  upon  the  king  and  the  ministers.  It  was  at  once  voted  that 
he  should  be  summarily  punished,  and  he  was  rudely  turned  out  of  the 
hall.  As  he  came,  boiling  with  indignation,  out  of  the  Palais  into  the 
street,  young  Thiers  happened  to  be  sauntering  near  by.  Learning 
what  had  happened  to  Manuel,  the  fiery  little  editor  hurried  up  to  him, 
and,  though  an  entire  stranger,  seized  him  by  both  hands. 

"Vengeance!"  cried  he  angrily.  "The  representatives  are  invio- 
lable !     Shame  upon  those  who  violate  the  charter  !  " 

"  Be  quiet !  "  answered  Manuel.  "  Don't  subject  yourself  to  arrest. 
What  is  your  name,  young  man  ?  " 

Thiers  told  the  orator  who  he  was,  and  added,  "  If  you  need  a 
devoted  pen,  I  offer  you  mine.  It  is  a  worthy  one.  We  are  fellow- 
countrymen." 

Manuel  took  him  at  his  word  ;  and  the  very  next  week  he  had  an 
invitation  to  become  one  of  the  editors  of  "The  Constitutional,"  then 
the  leading  paper  of  Paris. 

When  the  revolution  of  1830,  which  drove  the  last  Bourbon, 
Charles  X.,  from  the  throne,  fiery  little  Thiers  was  in  the  midst  of 
the  turmoil,  and  actively  engaged  in  directing  its  current.  He  was 
now  a  person  of  much  importance ;  for  his  writings  had  made  him 
famous,  and  had  done  much  to  hasten  the  revolution.  It  was  due  to 
him,  that,  instead  of  founding  a  Republic,  the  leaders  resolved  to  sub- 
stitute a  mild,  free  Monarchy  in  place  of  downfallen  Bourbon  despot- 
ism ;  and  it  was  he  who  persuaded  them  to  put  Louis  Philippe,  Duke 
of  Orleans,  at  the  head  of  the  new  rfgivic. 

Of  course,  Thiers  was  a  great  man  when  the  king,  whom  he  had 
chosen,  and  who  was  indebted  to  him  for  his  throne,  began  to  reign. 
His  rise  in  office  was  rapid  ;  and,  in  six  years  after  the  revolution,  the 
once  obscure  editor  found  himself  Prime  Minister  of  France. 

It  was  while  he  held  the  office  of  Minister  of  the  Interior  that  the 
following  romantic  incident  occurred  :  — 

Charles  X.,  who  had  been  driven  from  the  throne  in  1830,  had  had 
a  son,  the  Duke  de  Berri,  who  had  been  assassinated  some  years  be- 
fore. This  Duke  de  Berri  left  a  widow  and  an  only  child,  the  Duke  of 
Bordeaux,  now  known  as  the  Count  of  Chambord. 


ADOLPHE   THIERS. 


333 


The  Duchess  of  Berri  was  a  very  resolute  woman  ;  and  soon  after 
her  father-in-law  was  driven  from  the  throne,  and  Louis  Philippe  suc- 
ceeded, she  resolved  to  attempt  to  stir  up  a  revolt  in  favor  of  her  infant 
son.  The  result  was  the  insurrection  of  La  Vendee,  but  this  rising 
was  speedily  suppressed.     Meanwhile  the  duchess  remained  in  France, 


Adolphe   Thiers. 


in  hiding  somewhere.  The  extreme  party  of  the  deputies  suspected 
Thiers  of  not  wishing  to  arrest  her,  and  made  a  great  clamor  about  it 
in  the  Chamber.  One  day  a  hot-headed  deputy  seized  Thiers  by  the 
collar,  and  cried  out  angrily,  — 

"  You  will  not  arrest  her !  You  would  ruin  France  for  the  profit 
of  these  vile  Bourbons  !  " 

Thiers,  though  a  little  man,  was  muscular.  He  pushed  the  irate 
deputy  back  into  his  seat,  and  said,  — 


334  ADOLPHE   THIERS. 

"  Meet  me  at  Anterid  an  hour  hence,  with  sword  or  pistol  —  I  am 
good  at  either.     I  will  kill  you  !  " 

Before  the  time  came,  the  deputy's  anger  had  cooled  ;  and  he 
humbly  apologized  for  his  rudeness. 

The  same  day  that  this  happened,  Thiers  received  an  anonymous 
note,  in  which  the  writer  declared  that  he  could  confide  to  him  the 
secret  of  the  Duchess  of  Berri's  hiding-place. 

"  I  exact  from  you,"  the  letter  said,  "  two  conditions.  One  is,  that 
the  duchess  shall  in  no  case  run  any  serious  peril ;  the  other,  that  you 
will  meet  me  alone  this  night,  between  eleven  and  midnight,  at  a  cer- 
tain spot  under  the  trees  of  the  Champs  Elysees." 

It  was  a  dangerous  thing  for  him  to  do,  but  Thiers  never  lacked 
courage  at  a  critical  moment.  His  curiosity  and  his  zeal  were  aroused 
by  the  mysterious  letter.  At  the  appointed  time  he  repaired,  quite 
alone,  to  the  secluded  spot  which  the  letter  named.  He  found  there 
a  man,  all  muffled  up,  who  proved  to  be  one  Dentz,  a  Jew,  in  whose 
faith  the  Duchess  of  Berri  placed  perfect  confidence. 

Dentz  began  at  once,  by  saying  to  the  minister,  "  What  will  you 
give,  if  I  deliver  the  Duchess  de  Berri  to  the  officers  of  the  law  ? " 

"A  million  francs,"  Thiers  promptly  replied. 

"Enough.     It  is  agreed,"  was  the  traitor's  response. 

The  duchess  was  hiding  at  Nantes,  the  capital  of  ancient  Brittany. 
Thither  Dentz  conducted  two  gendarmes,  pointed  out  the  house  in 
which  she  was  ;  and  she  was  arrested.  The  duchess  was  imprisoned 
a  short  time  ;  but  Thiers,  always  fierce  before  he  succeeded  in  his 
purpose,  became  lenient  when  he  had  his  victim  in  his  grasp.  He 
refused  to  bring  the  duchess  to  trial,  and  sent  her  out  of  France  with 
a  very  courteous  but  distinct  warning  not  to  return. 

Although  Thiers  voted  for,  and  advocated,  Prince  Louis  Napoleon 
(afterwards  emperor)  for  president  after  the  revolution  of  1848,  he 
soon  began  to  oppose  his  policy,  and  ended  by  becoming  very  hostile 
to  him.  Finally,  Napoleon  put  in  execution  his  famous  coup  d\(tat  of 
December,  185 1,  one  of  the  acts  of  which  was  the  sudden  arrest  of  all 
the  deputies  who  were  his  enemies.  Among  these  was  Thiers.  On 
that  cold  winter  morning,  before  daybreak,  a  police-officer  entered 
Thiers's  bedroom,  where  the  little  statesman  was  sleeping  soundly. 
He  awoke  him,  and  said, — 

"Monsieur  Thiers,  I  have  a  warrant  for  your  arrest." 

Thiers  sat  up  in  bed,  and  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  gazed  at  the  officer 
for  a  moment  in  mute  surprise.     Then  he  exclaimed  indignantly,  — 


ADOLPHE    THIERS.  335 

"  Sir,  who  are  you  ?  and  how  dare  you  enter  my  bedroom  ? " 

"  I  am  the  Commissary  H ,  and  I  am  ordered  by  the  president 

to  arrest  you." 

"  But  do  you  not  know  that  I  am  a  deputy,  and  that  the  persons 
of  deputies  cannot  be  violated  ?  " 

"  I  can  only  do  my  duty,  Monsieur  Thiers.  I  have  my  orders,  and 
I  must  obey  them.  Proceed  to  dress  yourself,  monsieur,  and  come 
along  with  me." 

"  I  protest  against  this  !  It  is  an  outrage  !  "  exclaimed  the  irate 
little  man,  with  flashing  eyes,  and  squeaking  voice. 

He  was,  however,  forced  to  submit,  and  soon  found  himself  in  one 
of  the  Paris  prisons,  with  a  number  of  his  fellow-deputies.  In  a  few 
days  he  was  taken  out,  but  not  set  free.  He  was  carried  by  gendarmes 
out  of  Paris,  across  France,  and  politely  set  down  beyond  the  Belgian 
frontier.  Six  months  elapsed  before  he  was  allowed  to  return  to  his 
own  country. 

It  was  Monsieur  Thiers's  habit,  when  making  a  speech,  to  have  a 
cup  of  coffee  and  a  glass  of  water  before  him  ;  and,  as  he  spoke,  he 
would  every  now  and  then  take  a  sip  of  the  coffee,  following  it  up  at 
once  with  a  sip  from  the  tumbler  of  water.  He  was  a  very  effective 
orator,  though  his  figure  was  the  reverse  of  imposing ;  and  his  voice 
was  so  high  and  thin,  that  it  resembled  a  squeak.  He  had  wonderful 
powers  of  endurance,  and,  at  seventy-five  or  six  years  of  age,  could 
make  a  speech  three  or  four  hours  in  length,  and  appear  as  fresh, 
lively,  and  chatty  after  it  as  before  it,  often  going  from  the  chamber, 
where  he  had  delivered  one  of  these  long  addresses,  to  an  evening 
reception,  and  remaining  there,  active  and  brilliant,  till  long  after 
midnight. 


QUEEN   VICTORIA. 


By    LOUISE    CHANDLER    MOULTON. 

I. 

OPENING    PARLIAMENT. 

ALL  was  strange  and  new  in  England ;  but  the  real  queerness 
began  when  we  reached  London,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

"'Ave  a  four-wheeler,  ma'am  ?     Take  hall  your  boxes." 

A  "four-wheeler"  is  Londonese  for  a  hack;  and  common,  dirty, 
disreputable-looking  hacks  they  are.  Your  "boxes"  —  no  one  says 
trunks  in  England,  unless  they  are  talking  of  elephants  —  your  boxes 
are  put  up  on  the  top  of  the  four-wheeler  in  which  you  seat  yourself, 
and  kept  in  place  by  a  railing  which  surrounds  the  ungainly  vehicle. 

Thus,  with  all  our  worldly  goods  above  our  devoted  heads,  we  were 
driven  to  the  Charing-Cross  Hotel.  It  is  one  of  the  largest  hotels  in 
London  ;  but  it  has  no  smart  clerk,  like  the  little  great-man  of  the 
American  hotel.  The  office  duties  are  discharged  by  young  women, 
—  civil,  kind,  attentive,  and  perfectly  competent  to  their  business. 

A  room  is  assigned  us,  and  we  go  up  on  the  "  lift "  (no  one  says 
elevator  in  London).  There  is  no  bell  by  which  to  summon  this  con- 
venience ;  and  if  at  any  time  being  a  flight  or  two  above  the  entrance- 
floor,  you  want  to  be  carried  a  few  stories  farther  up,  you  are  expected 
to  lean  over  the  stairs,  and  shout,  "  Send  up  the  lift,  please ;  "  and, 
after  a  while,  it  comes  creaking  along.  In  your  chamber  you  find 
wooden  benches,  two  of  them  ;  but  no  rocking-chair,  no  furnace-regis- 
ter ;  worst  of  all,  no  gas.  A  bedroom-candle  scarcely  makes  darkness 
visible ;  for,  in  February,  London  is  dark  at  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon. 

"  Will  you  'ave  dressing-lights  ? "  asks  the  neat,  fresh-faced  cham- 
336 


QUEEN   VICTORIA.  337 

ber-maid.  This  sounds  imposing.  We  reply  in  the  affirmative,  and 
expect  a  grand  illumination.  "  Kerosene  lamps,  at  least,"  my  friend 
says  ;  but  that  sounds  hardly  grand  enough  for  the  air  with  which  the 
dressing-lights  have  been  proffered  us. 

Presently  the  maid  re-enters,  and  bears,  with  a  gravity  befitting 
the  occasion,  a  candle  in  each  hand, — tall,  new  candles  these,  and  set 
in  sticks  that  look  like  silver.  Dorothy  —  we  call  all  our  English 
maids  Dorothy  —  sets  down  the  dressing-lights  with  a  stately  air,  and 
departs  ;  and  we  see  but  little  better  than  before. 

But  notwithstanding  the  dim  lights,  and  the  missing  rocking- 
chairs,  and  the  open  fires,  which  burn  your  nose,  and  freeze  your  back, 
we  presently  find  ourselves  in  love  with  London.  We  wish,  mildly, 
that  they  would  have  street-crossings ;  for  the  streets  are  fearfully 
muddy  in  winter.  We  would  be  glad  if  it  weren't  so  foggy.  We 
regret  that  they  should  cover  their  hackney  carriages  with  advertise- 
ments of  silver  polish  and  soap ;  but  these  are  trifles,  and  London  is 
—  London.  What  a  charm  the  very  street-signs  have  for  us,  familiar 
as  they  have  been  to  us  all  our  lives  in  our  reading  ! 

We  mean  to  stay  one  day  only,  and  we  stay  six.  But  the  sixth 
day  is  the  opening  of  Parliament,  at  which  the  Queen  is  to  appear  in 
person,  for  the  first  time  in  five  years.  The  papers  are  all  full  of  an- 
ticipation. One  or  two  venture  a  little  sneer,  and  say  that  her  Majesty 
wishes  to  conciliate  the  people,  because  she  has  another  daughter  to 
marry  off,  and  wants  to  put  the  Commons  in  good-humor,  in  order  that 
they  may  vote  the  aforesaid  poverty-stricken  princess  a  handsome 
supply  of  pin-money.  But,  for  the  most  part,  the  mentions  of  the 
forthcoming  ceremony  are  in  a  spirit  of  grateful  and  humble  reverence, 
which  is  rather  astonishing  to  us,  the  descendants  of  rebels,  whose 
centennial  year  is  just  begun. 

It  was  quite  a  triumph  to  get  tickets  for  this  grand  occasion. 
Thousands  had  been  refused,  before  a  friend,  who  chanced  to  be  the 
brother  of  a  noble  earl,  and  so  to  have  much  influence  at  his  command, 
asked  for,  and  obtained  ours.     On  the  ticket  was  printed,  — 

"No  one  admitted,  except  in  full  dress." 

Now,  "full"  dress  means,  not  more  clothes  than  usual,  but  less. 
It  means  a  low-necked  gown,  and  that  doesn't  sound  comfortable  in 
February.  But  Roman  Pompey  —  strong  old  hero  —  said  once,  when 
he  was  told  by  an  oracle,  that,  if  he  went  to  a  certain  place  where  duty 
called  him,  he  would  surely  die,  "  It  is  necessary  to  go.  It  is  not 
necessary  to  live." 


338  QUEEN   VICTORIA. 

For  us,  it  was  necessary  to  see  the  Queen  :  it  was  not  necessary  to 
be  comfortable.  So  we  got  ourselves  into  our  evening-dresses,  and  then 
into  a  four-wheeler.  We  thought  of  a  brougham  and  a  man-servant ; 
but  we  concluded  to  save  our  shillings,  and  trust  to  luck.  So  we  fell 
into  the  line  of  gorgeous  carriages,  in  our  old  four-wheeler,  with  a  cer- 
tain satisfaction  in  the  thought  of  our  safe  obscurity. 

It  was  a  day  of  snow  and  sleet  and  bleak  winds,  and  we  hugged 
our  shawls  around  our  shivering  shoulders  as  we  drove  along  slowly 
between  the  throngs  of  eager  sight-seers  who  filled  the  sidewalks. 

Parliament  Street  was  brave  with  flags,  and  flamed  with  red  bunt- 
ing  at  every  window.  Everywhere  were  soldiers — life-guards,  hussars, 
etc.  — keeping  the  patient,  waiting  populace  within  their  due  limits.  I 
wondered  whether  it  was  the  sentiment  of  loyalty,  or  merely  the  love 
of  a  fine  show,  which  held  the  tired  throng  standing  there,  hour  after 
hour,  so  patiently. 

In  the  House  of  Lords  the  scene  was  not  brilliant  at  first,  because 
it  was  so  dimly  lighted.  The  gas  was  turned  low,  and  the  dull  Febru- 
ary day  scarcely  penetrated  through  the  gorgeous  painted  windows. 
The  house  was  nearly  filled  at  half-past  one,  —  an  hour  before  the 
Queen  was  expected.  About  two,  the  full  force  of  the  gas  was  turned 
on  ;  and  then  the  house  seemed  all  ablaze  with  splendor. 

There  were  the  ambassadors  from  foreign  countries,  glittering  with 
decorations.  The  bishops  were  there,  too,  stately  in  their  robes  ;  and 
the  judges,  funny  enough  in  their  wigs,  which  looked  like  sheepskins 
with  the  wool  well  curled  ;  the  peers,  in  their  scarlet  and  ermine ; 
the  pretty,  young  peeresses,  with  their  graceful  Paris  gowns,  and  their 
eyes  as  bright  as  the  diamonds  that  they  wore  ;  the  old  peeresses,  for 
whom  grace  and  beauty  were  only  traditions  of  a  long-forgotten  past, 
whose  jewels  mocked  their  faded  faces,  and  whose  feathers  nodded 
over  heads  no  longer  fair  :  it  was  altogether  a  glittering  spectacle. 

The  house  was  cold,  and  the  noble  ladies  drew  their  shawls  and 
opera-cloaks  tightly  round  them.  But  presently  came  a  general  whis- 
per that  the  Queen  was  coming :  and,  instantly,  all  the  wraps  were 
dropped  ;  and  fair  necks,  sallow  necks,  fat  necks,  scrawny  necks,  all 
alike,  were  bared,  in  honor  of  her  Majesty. 

A  cannon  was  discharged  ;  and  then  the  pursuivants  were  seen 
filing  through  the  doorway,  at  the  left  of  the  throne.  Then  came  the 
heralds,  the  "  Gentlemen  of  the  Household,"  the  great  Officers  of 
State,  and  then  the  Queen  herself,  accompanied  by  the  Princess  of 
Wales,  the  Princess  Louise,  and  the  Princess  Beatrice,  and  attended 


QUEEN   VICTORIA.  339 

by  the  Mistress  of  the  Robes  and  the  Lady  in  Waiting.  Then  came 
Officers  of  the  Household,  lord  this  and  lord  that,  Gold-stick  and 
Silver-stick,  officers,  pages,  and  sergeants-at-arms,  with  whom  the  pro- 
cession closes. 

The  Queen  takes  her  seat.  She  is  a  stout  woman,  of  over  sixty ; 
and  she  never  could  have  been  handsome,  even  in  her  youthful  prime. 
Now  her  honest,  round,  elderly  face  was  flushed  with  excitement,  or 
with  the  exercise  of  walking,  to  an  unbecoming  dark  red. 

She  wore  a   dress  which    called    itself   low-necked,  but  was  quite 
modestly  high  compared  to  those  which  many  other  ladies  had  donned 
in  honor  of  her  royal  presence.     It  was  of  black  velvet ;  and  she  was 
sumptuous  with    lace  and  miniver,  and 
magnificent  with  diamonds,  among  which 
was  the  famous  Koh-i-noor,  sparkling  like 
a  little  sun  among  lesser  stars.     I  should 
never  have  guessed  that  she  was  a  queen, 
but  for  her  good   clothes,  and  the  fuss 
they  were  all  making  about  her. 

On  one  side  the  throne,  where  her 
Majesty  sat  serenely  fronting  the  assem- 
bled and  admiring  throng,  was  the  Prin- 
cess Beatrice ;  and,  on  the  other,  the 
Princess  Louise,  —  nice,  wholesome-look- 
ing young  ladies,  with  nothing  remarkable  about  them.  They  adjusted 
the  royal  robes  which  hung  on  the  throne  behind  their  mother.  The 
noble  lords  and  ladies,  who  had  accompanied  the  Queen,  placed  them- 
selves in  proper  position  before  her ;  and  then  came  the  funniest  little 
bit  of  play-acting. 

The  House  of  Commons,  you  must  know,  is  very  tenacious  of  its 
dignity  as  the  representative  of  the  people,  —  the  Queen's  rival  sov- 
eign  ;  and  though,  of  course,  their  presence  is  expected  at  the  opening 
of  Parliament,  by  no  means  will  they  come  unsummoned,  or  appear  to 
take  any  interest  in  the  proceedings.  They  are  assembled  in  their 
own  House,  attending  to  their  own  business  ;  and  they  "play,"  as  the 
children  say,  that  they  do  not  know  that  any  thing  unusual  is  going  on. 

When  every  thing  is  arranged,  the  Queen  looks  about  her ;  and 
then  she  "plays"  that  she  is  very  much  surprised  not  to  see  her  Gen- 
tlemen of  the  House  of  Commons.  She  then  despatches  the  yeoman 
usher  to  summon  the  Commons  to  her  presence. 

Presently,  tramp,  tramp,  skurry,  skurry,  in  they  come.     There  must 


34°  QUEEN  VICTORIA. 

have  been  a  good  many  of  them,  by  the  noise  they  made ;  but  as  they 
took  their  stand  directly  under  the  foreign  gallery,  where  I  sat,  I  could 
not  see  them,  and  lost  the  opportunity  to  compare  the  representatives 
of  the  people  with  the  peers, — the  men  of  struggle  and  aspiration 
with  the  men  placed  by  birth  beyond  the  need  of  struggle. 

Then,  all  being  ready,  there  was  a  moment  of  intense  expectation. 
That  the  Queen's  speech  had  been  written  for  her,  we  all  knew ;  but 
that  she  would  read  it  herself,  we  all  expected. 

So  far,  she  had  not  opened  her  lips ;  and  we  wanted  to  hear  her 
voice,  to  divine  thereby,  if  we  might,  what  quality  of  gracious  queen- 
liness  she  had.  But  queens,  it  seems,  are  not  bound  to  keep  faith  with 
the  expectations  of  their  subjects. 

Now  came  another  piece  of  dumb-show.  The  speech  was  handed 
to  her,  and  she  held  it  for  an  instant.  Then  she  beckoned  to  the  lord 
chancellor ;  and  he  received  it  from  her  hands,  and  announced  that 
he  was  commanded  by  the  Queen  to  read  it. 

The  command  had  been  given  in  pantomime  ;  for  not  once,  from 
first  to  last,  did  the  royal  lady  open  her  mouth.  The  lord  chancellor 
read  well,  —  slowly,  distinctly,  and  with  good  emphasis. 

When  the  speech  was  over,  her  Majesty  rose,  and  bowed  to  the 
Princess  of  Wales,  the  Duchess  of  Edinburgh,  and  the  Princess  Mary, 
who  had  been  seated  exactly  fronting  her. 

Perhaps  this  gracious  bow  was  meant  to  glance  sideways,  and  take 
in  the  rest  of  the  House :  but  it  did  not  look  so ;  and,  therefore,  I  did 
not  appropriate  any  of  it  to  myself.  Then  she  went  out  solemnly,  this 
royal  lady,  escorted  as  before,  and  betook  herself  to  her  carriage. 

After  her  Majesty  had  departed,  the  shivering  peeresses,  and  the 
rest  of  us  shivering  women,  were  permitted  to  pull  our  shawls  and 
opera-cloaks  about  our  frozen  shoulders  ;  and  presently  we  began  to 
make  our  slow  way  down-stairs. 

Then  the  carriages  were  called,  and  drew  up,  one  by  one,  before 
the  entrance.  "  Lord  So-and-so's  carriage  stops  the  way,"  was  bawled 
by  one  gorgeous  flunkey  after  another;  and  "Lord  So-and-so"  passed 
through  the  throng,  and  got  in.  His  coachman  started  off  at  a  rattling 
pace,  even  while  his  two  or  three  footmen  were  in  the  very  act  of 
scrambling  up  behind.  I  expected  them  to  break  their  unfortunate 
necks,  but  they  didn't. 

What  gorgeous  creatures  they  were,  to  be  sure!  The  lords  them- 
selves showed  small,  in  comparison  with  these  big  fellows,  with  blue 
coats  and  yellow  coats  and  green  coats,  all  covered  with  gold  lace  and 


THE    QUEEN  AND  PRINCE  ALBERT.  341 

silver  lace,  and  embroidery  and  buttons,  till  decoration  could  no  farther 
go.  I  had  plenty  of  time  to  watch  them  in  the  hour  and  a  half  before 
my  turn  came. 

I  watched  the  noble  lords  and  ladies  also,  whose  carriages  were 
called. 

Some  of  the  women  were  extremely  pretty,  but  those  were  the 
younger  ones.  The  English  fair  are  fair  no  longer,  "  once  they  have 
come  to  forty  year."  Hawthorne's  descriptions  of  them,  at  which  they 
raged  so,  do  them  no  more  than  justice. 

Somebody  says  that  the  best  part  of  a  journey  is  the  getting  home 
from  it ;  and  so  to  me  the  best  part  of  Parliament  Day  was  the  quiet 
hour  of  rest  and  warmth  and  dinner  at  the  Charing  Cross  afterwards, 
where  I  sat  and  bethought  me  of  the  moral  of  all  this,  and  contrasted 
the  Republican  simplicity  in  which  I  had  been  brought  up,  with  all  the 
pomp  and  pageantry  I  had  just  witnessed. 

II. 

THE   QUEEN   AND   PRINCE   ALBERT. 

For  many  years  Queen  Victoria  has  mourned  for  one  of  the  best 
husbands,  and  one  of  the  wisest  advisers,  that  ever  a  female  sovereign 
had.  Prince  Albert,  to  whom  she  had  been  united  for  twenty-one 
years,  died  in  December,  1861,  just  at  the  opening  of  our  war  of  the 
Rebellion  ;  and  in  such  respect  and  affection  is  his  memory  still  held, 
that  a  splendid  monument  has  been  erected  to  his  honor  in  the  very 
heart  of  London. 

The  marriage  of  Victoria  and  Albert  was  a  love-match,  —  a  not 
very  common  thing  in  unions  of  princes  and  princesses.  They  were 
first  cousins  ;  Albert's  father  and  Victoria's  mother  having  been  brother 
and  sister,  the  children  of  the  Duke  of  Coburg.  But,  when  they  be- 
came engaged,  their  situations  were  very  different.  Victoria  was  the 
young  Queen  of  one  of  the  mightiest  and  proudest  empires  on  earth. 
Albert  was  only  the  younger  son  of  a  poor  and  petty  German  prince, 
"across  whose  dominion  one  might  walk  in  half  a  day." 

But  their  relationship  and  the  plans  of  their  family  served  to  bring 
them  together  at  a  very  early  age,  and  they  were  very  young  when 
their  union  was  first  thought  of.  Old  King  Leopold  of  Belgium  was 
the  uncle  of  both  of  them,  and  it  was  he  who  first  conceived  the  idea 
of  their  marriage.     But  not  a  word  was  said  to  either  of  them  about 


342  THE   QUEEN  AND  PRINCE  ALBERT. 

it  until  an  affection  had  grown  up  between  them,  and  it  was  time  for 
the  young  Queen  to  choose  a  partner  for  her  heart  and  throne. 

Albert  and  Victoria  met  for  the  first  time  when  they  were  both  sev- 
enteen years  old.  The  young  prince  and  his  brother  went  to  England 
to  pay  a  visit  to  their  aunt  and  cousin,  and  the  young  couple  were 
brought  together.  Albert,  at  that  time,  was  rather  short  and  thick- 
set, but  fine-looking,  rosy-cheeked,  natural  and  simple  in  his  manners, 
and  of  a  cheerful  disposition.  He  took  a  great  deal  of  interest  in 
ever)'  thing  about  him,  and,  while  on  his  visit  to  England,  spent  much 
time  in  playing  on  the  piano  with  his  cousin  Victoria,  who  was  then  a 
slight,  graceful,  and  interesting  girl. 

She  fell  in  love  with  him  at  once ;  but  he,  though  he  liked  her, 
was  not  so  quickly  impressed.  He  wrote  to  his  uncle  Leopold  that 
"  our  cousin  is  very  amiable,"  but  had  no  stronger  praise  for  her.  Al- 
bert then  returned  to  the  Continent,  and  spent  some  years  in  travel 
and  study,  writing  occasionally  to  Victoria,  and  she  to  him.  Mean- 
while King  William  IV.  died ;  and  Victoria,  in  her  eighteenth  year, 
ascended  the  British  throne. 

The  young  prince's  next  visit  took  place  in  the  year  after  this 
event,  and  now  his  object  was  to  plead  for  the  hand  and  heart  of  the 
young  Queen.  Victoria  could  scarcely  believe  her  eyes  when  she  saw 
him.  The  short,  thick-set  boy  had  grown  into  a  tall,  comely  youth, 
with  elegant  manners,  and  a  strikingly  handsome  face.  Soon  after, 
she  wrote  to  her  uncle  Leopold,  "  Albert's  beauty  is  most  striking  ;  and 
he  is  most  amiable  and  unaffected,  —  in  short,  very  fascinating." 

A  few  days  after  his  arrival,  Victoria  had  made  up  her  mind,  and 
sending  for  Lord  Melbourne,  the  prime  minister,  told  him  that  she 
was  going  to  marry  Prince  Albert.  The  next  day  she  sent  for  the 
prince;  and,  "in  a  genuine  outburst  of  heartiness  and  love,"  she  de- 
clared to  him  that  he  had  gained  her  whole  heart,  and  would  make  her 
very  happy  if  he  would  share  his  life  with  her.  He  responded  with 
warm  affection,  and  thus  they  became  betrothed. 

The  Queen,  not  only  thus  "  popped  the  question,"  but  insisted  that 
the  marriage  should  take  place  at  an  early  day.  This  was  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1839;  and,  in  the  early  winter  of  1840,  the  young  couple  were 
married  in  the  royal  chapel  of  St.  James',  in  the  midst  of  general 
rejoicing,  and  with  great  pomp  and  ceremony. 

Such  was  the  beginning  of  a  happy  wedded  life,  which  lasted  for 
over  twenty  years,  and  during  which  the  love  of  each  for  the  other 
seemed  to  constantly  increase.     A  little  circle  of   children  was  soon 


THE    QUEEN  AND  PRINCE  ALBERT.  343 

formed  around  the  royal  hearthstone,  and  the  domestic  life  of  the 
palace  was  full  of  contentment  and  good  order ;  and,  as  Victoria  grew 
older,  she  learned  more  and  more  of  the  excellent  character  that  Provi- 
dence had  given  her  for  a  husband. 


Prince  Albert,  • 

While  Prince  Albert  assumed  the  direction  of  the  family  affairs, 
and  was  the  unquestioned  master  in  its  private  life,  he  was  wise 
enough  to  be  very  careful  how  he  interfered  with  the  Queen  in  the 
performance  of  her  public  duties.  He  knew,  that,  as  a  foreigner,  the 
English  would  be  very  jealous  of  him  if  he  took  part  in  politics,  or 
tried  to  influence  Victoria  in  her  conduct  as  a  ruler. 


344 


THE    QUEEN  AND  PRINCE  ALBERT. 


At  the  same  time,  the  young  Queen,  scarcely  more  than  a  girl, 
needed  a  guiding  hand,  and  one  that  she  could  trust.  No  one  could 
be  so  much  trusted  as  her  husband  ;  and  Albert  gradually  became  her 
adviser  on  public  affairs,  as  well  as  the  head  of  her  household.  At 
first,  there  were  many  grumblings  and  complaints  about  this  in  Eng- 
land ;  but  as  the  purity  and  good  sense  of  the  prince  became  better 
known,  as  it  became  evident  that  his  ambition  was  to  serve  the  Queen 
and  the  country,  these  complaints  for  the  most  part  ceased. 

Prince  Albert  devoted  himself,  with  all  his  heart  and  mind,  to  the 
duties  which  he  found  weighing  upon  him  as  a  husband  and  father, 

and  as  the  most  intimate  coun- 
sellor of  the  monarch  of  a  great 
country.  He  denied  himself  many 
of  the  innocent  pleasures  which 
lay  within  his  reach,  went  but 
little  into  society,  and  spent  his 
days  and  evenings  in  serious  occu- 
pations, and  in  the  midst  of  his 
happy  family  circle. 

Among  other  things,  he  took  a 
very  deep  interest  in  the  progress 
of  art,  science,  and  education. 
"  His  horses,"  says  a  writer, 
"  might  be  seen  waiting  for  him 
before  the  studios  of  artists,  the 
museums  of  art  and  science,  the 
institutions  for  benevolence  or 
culture,  but  never  before  the  doors  of  dissipation  or  mere  fashion." 

It  was  Prince  Albert  who  proposed  and  planned  the  great  London 
Exhibition  of  1851,  the  first  of  the  series  of  "World's  Fairs"  which 
have  since  been  so  frequently  held,  the  latest  being  our  own  Centen- 
nial ;  and,  when  it  had  been  resolved  upon,  it  was  Prince  Albert's  labor 
and  energy,  more  than  that  of  any  other,  which  made  it  a  success. 

In  his  own  family  circle,  Prince  Albert  was  always  kind,  gentle, 
and  indulgent,  but  firm  and  resolute  in  his  treatment  of  his  children. 
He  took  a  great  interest  in  their  studies,  and  directed  their  education, 
sometimes  teaching  them  himself ;  and  he  bestowed  an  anxious  and 
fatherly  care  upon  the  formation  of  their  manners  and  habits,  and  a 
right  training  of  their  hearts  and  minds. 

From  first  to  last,  he  was  as  tenderly  devoted  to  the  Queen  as  a 


Prince  Albert  Memorial. 


THE    QUEEN  AND  PRINCE  ALBERT. 


345 


lover.  He  went  with  her  everywhere,  and  his  tastes  and  hers  were 
entirely  congenial.  Of  a  quiet  and  domestic  disposition,  he  was  amply 
content  to  find  his  pleasures  in  the  family  circle ;  and  Victoria  took  a 
perpetual  delight  in  his  kind  and 
cultivated  companionship. 

When  Prince  Albert  died, 
rather  suddenly,  in  December, 
1 86 1,  the  Queen  was  fairly  over- 
whelmed with  grief ;  and  it  was 
many,  many  years  before  she  so 
far  recovered  from  it  that  she 
could  bear  to  show  herself  in  pub- 
lic, or  to  take  part  in  any  social 
gathering  or  state  ceremony. 

He  was  placed  in  a  tomb  in 
the  beautiful  park  of  Windsor, 
where  she  had   so  often    roamed 

/13/U. 

with   him   in   their  early  wedded 

life  ;  and  every  year,   on  the  sad  anniversary  of  his  death,  Victoria 

repairs  to  his  grave,  and  prays,  and  scatters  flowers  on  the  tomb. 

The  Albert  memorial,  erected 
to  his  memory  in  Hyde  Park,  is  a 
tribute,  both  of  the  nation  and  of 
the  Queen,  to  his  purity,  virtues, 
and  the  value  of  his  life  as  a  hus- 
band and  a  public  man. 

Its  form  is  that  of  a  highly 
ornamented  shrine  or  tabernacle, 
beneath  the  arched  roof  of  which 
is  placed  a  large  bronze  statue  of 
Prince  Albert,  in  a  sitting  attitude, 
attired  in  the  robes  and  insignia 
of  a  Knight  of  the  Garter,  and 
with  an  air  of  dignity  and  repose. 
On  the  monument  is  to  be  seen,  in  letters  of  blue  glass  with  black 

edges,  on  a  ground  of  gold  enamelled  glass,  the  following  inscription  :  — 

"  Queen  Victoria  and  her  Peoplk 

To  the  Memory  of  Albert,  Prince  Consort, 

As  a  tribute  of  their  gratitude 

For  a  life  devoted  to  the  public  good." 


America. 


346  THE   QUEEN  AND  PRINCE  ALBERT. 

Perhaps  the  most  striking  of  all  the  adornments  of  the  memorial 
are  the  four  sculptured  groups  of  the  continents,  placed  at  the  four 
corners  of  the  stone  platform,  above  which  the  spire  rises.  Europe, 
America,  Asia,  and  Africa  are  represented  by  allegorical  types  of  their 
people,  and  by  animals  which  are  peculiar  to  them. 

By  bass-reliefs,  allegorical  groups,  statues,  and  beautiful  symbolic 
figures,  every  art  and  science  in  which  Prince  Albert  took  an  interest, 
and  many  of  which  he  fostered  and  promoted,  serve  to  adorn  the 
noble  monument  erected  to  his  memory,  and  to  recall  the  many  good 
works  he  achieved  during  his  busy  life. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF 

ABRAHAM    LINCOLN 


By   BEN:   PERLEY   POORE. 

THE  announcement  that  Abraham  Lincoln  of  Illinois  had  been 
elected  President  of  the  United  States  was  received  with  dismay 
at  the  national  capital  by  what  was  known  as  "Washington  society." 
Old  gentlemen  who  had  been  appointed  to  office  by  President  Jackson, 
and  their  wives,  who  remembered  the  receptions  of  "  Dolly  "  Madison, 
were  profoundly  astonished.  Among  the  younger  generation  of  Fed- 
eral place-holders,  there  were  howlings  of  despair ;  and  caricatures  of 
"  Old  Abe  "  were  circulated  with  great  satisfaction.  Many  from  the 
Southern  States  believed  that  the  Republican  party  was  determined 
to  degrade  their  section  of  the  country  by  denying  what  they  regarded 
as  its  constitutional  rights  ;  and  they  avowed  their  determination  to  en- 
list under  the  "  Southern  Cross  "  with  some  bravado,  but  with  a  courage 
that  never  faltered. 

Some  of  the  door-keepers  at  the  Capitol  remembered  Mr.  Lincoln 
when  he  was  in  the  Thirtieth  Congress  as  a  Whig  representative  from 
Illinois,  all  of  his  six  colleagues  being  Democrats.  His  seat  was  on 
the  outer  range,  near  a  door  which  led  into  the  post-office  of  the  House, 
where  he  used  to  pass  much  of  his  time,  telling  stories,  or  listening  to 
the  stories  of  others. 

His  sallow  features  were  then  clean  shaven,  showing  the  prom- 
inence of  his  high  cheek-bones,  and  his  firm  under  jaw.  His  forehead 
was  broad,  his  nose  strongly  aquiline,  and  his  pleasant  eyes  twinkled 
from  beneath  his  black  eyebrows  when  he  made  a  point  in  conversa- 
tion. Those  who  knew  him,  liked  him  ;  and  when,  at  the  expiration 
of  his  Congressional  term,  he  applied  for  appointment  as  commissioner- 
general  of  the  Land  Office,  the  leading  Whigs  in  the  House  generally 
signed  his  petition. 

347 


348  RECOLLECTIONS   OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

When  Mr.  Lincoln  arrived,  in  advance  of  the  announced  time,  to 
escape  threatened  assassination,  he  brought  his  inaugural  address  with 
him  in  print,  rather  to  the  annoyance  of  Mr.  Seward,  who,  as  Secretary 
of  State  of  the  new  administration,  had  hoped  to  draught  the  production 
which  was  so  eagerly  awaited  by  the  country.  Mr.  Lincoln  had  writ- 
ten his  inaugural  at  Springfield,  and  had  had  it  confidentially  put  in 
type  by  his  friend,  the  local  printer.  Four  copies  were  printed  on 
foolscap  paper ;  and,  wherever  the  writer  thought  that  a  paragraph 
would  be  effective,  he  preceded  it  with  a  typographic  fist. 

A  carpet-bag,  containing  these  printed  copies  of  the  forthcoming 
inaugural,  was  intrusted  by  Mr.  Lincoln  to  his  eldest  son,  "Bob,"  now 
Secretary  of  War,  who  was  so  taken  aback  by  the  enthusiastic  recep- 
tion which  they  received  at  Harrisburg,  that  he  permitted  a  waiter  to 
take  it,  and  forgot  all  about  it.  When  asked  for  it  by  his  father,  he 
was  forced  to  confess  that  he  knew  not  where  it  was.  Mr.  Lincoln 
immediately  started  for  the  baggage-room  ;  and,  striding  over  the  bar- 
rier at  the  door,  he  began  overhauling,  without  ceremony,  a  large  pile 
of  carpet-bags,  until  he  was  fortunate  enough  to  find  the  one  contain- 
ing the  precious  document. 

After  arriving  at  Washington,  Mr.  Lincoln  gave  one  copy  of  his 
inaugural  to  Mr.  Seward,  and  another  to  the  venerable  Francis  P.  Blair, 
asking  them  to  read  and  criticise.  Some  changes  were  made,  of  no 
great  importance,  which  were  given  to  Mr.  Nicolay,  the  President's 
private  secretary,  to  write  in  a  fair  hand  on  one  of  the  printed  copies, 
from  which  Mr.  Lincoln  was  to  read.  Mr.  Nicolay  corrected  another 
copy,  which  was  furnished  to  the  press,  and  which  I  now  own. 

As  the  day  for  inauguration  approached,  the  people  at  Washington 
grew  more  and  more  excited  ;  and  every  day  witnessed  the  departure 
southward  of  members  of  Congress,  officers  of  the  army  and  navy, 
and  clerks  in  the  departments.  A  clergyman  in  Georgetown,  who 
went  to  Richmond,  locked  up  his  favorite  cat  in  the  cellar  of  his  house 
with  what  he  thought  would  be  thirty  days'  rations,  expecting  before 
that  time  to  return  in  triumph  with  the  government  of  the  Southern 
Confederacy. 

Great  exertions  were  made  to  have  the  ceremonies  of  the  inaugu- 
ration equal  those  of  previous  occasions,  and  the  procession  was  es- 
corted by  a  considerable  force  of  the  recently  organized  militia  of  the 
district ;  the  members  of  a  company  of  sharp-shooters  having  been 
posted  on  prominent  house-tops  along  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  with  in- 
structions to  fire   on   any  one  whom   they  might    see  aiming  at  Mr. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OE  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 


349 


Lincoln.  The  Regulars  were  under  command  of  Gen.  Scott,  then  old, 
infirm,  and  too  heavy  to  mount  a  horse.  He  rode  in  a  coupt,  and  re- 
mained, during  the  exercises,  near  a  light  battery,  stationed  near  the 


Abraham   Lincoln, 
[from  "  Twenty  Years  of  Congress."] 


Capitol,  with  its  pieces  loaded  with  grape-shot,  in  case  there  should 
be  an  outbreak. 

When  Mr.  Lincoln  came  out  on  the  platform  in  front  of  the  Capitol, 
his  tall  figure  rising  above  those  around  him,  the  usual  genial  smile 
was  on  his  angular  countenance  ;  but  he  seemed  much  perplexed  to 


350  RECOLLECTIONS   OE  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

know  what  to  do  with  a  new  silk  hat,  and  a  large  gold-headed  cane. 
The  cane  he  put  under  the  table,  but  the  hat  appeared  to  be  too  good 
to  place  on  the  rough  boards.  Senator  Douglas  saw  the  embarrass- 
ment of  his  old  friend,  and,  rising,  took  the  shining  hat  from  its  both- 
ered owner,  and  held  it  during  the  delivery  of  the  inaugural  address. 
Mr.  Lincoln  was  listened  to  with  great  earnestness,  and  evidently  de- 
sired to  convince  the  multitude  before  him,  rather  than  to  bewilder  or 
dazzle  them.  It  was  evident  to  all,  that  he  honestly  believed  every 
word  that  he  spoke,  especially  the  concluding  paragraph,  which  I  copy 
from  the  original  print :  — 

"  lO^  I  am  l°th  to  close.  We  are  not  enemies,  but  friends.  We  must  not  be 
enemies.  Though  passion  may  be  strained,  it  must  not  break  our  bonds  of  affection, 
(rfg^*  The  mystic  chords  of  memory  which  stretch  from  every  battle-field  and  patriot 
grave  to  every  loved  heart  and  hearthstone  all  over  our  broad  land,  will  yet  swell 
the  chorus  of  the  Union  when  again  touched,  as  they  surely  will  be,  by  the  better 
angels  of  our  nature." 

The  Senate  remained  convened  in  executive  session  until  the  28th 
of  March.  Breckinridge  sat  as  a  senator  from  Kentucky  ;  while  Vir- 
ginia, North  Carolina,  and  Texas  had  senators  who  openly  advocated 
rebellion,  and  spurned  allegiance  to  the  United  States.  The  Republi- 
cans generally  remained  quiet  during  this  debate  of  twenty-three  days, 
or  spoke  in  words  of  conciliation. 

Mr.  Lincoln  was  hardly  installed  in  the  White  House  before  the 
wild  hunt  for  office  commenced.  Among  other  good  stories  told  of 
him  was  one  of  a  man  who  came,  day  after  day,  asking  for  a  foreign 
mission.     At  last  the  President,  weary  of  his  face,  said,  — 

"  Do  you  know  Spanish  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  eager  aspirant ;  "  but  I  could  soon  learn  it." 

"Do  so,"  said  Mr.  Lincoln,  "and  I  will  give  you  a  good  thing." 

The  needy  politician  hurried  home,  and  spent  six  months  in  study- 
ing Ollendorff  Grammar.  He  then  re-appeared  at  the  White  House 
with  a  hopeful  heart,  and  a  fine  Castilian  accent ;  and  the  President 
presented  him  with  — a  copy  of  "  Don  Quixote  "  in  Spanish. 

Mr.  Lincoln,  while  at  the  White  House,  rose  in  good  season,  and 
often  devoted  an  hour  before  breakfast  to  his  private  correspondence. 
After  breakfast  he  went  to  his  office  ;  and  his  secretary  would  bring 
him  the  letters  received  by  mail,  taking  notes  of  any  replies  which 
Mr.  Lincoln  would  wish  to  make.  At  nine  o'clock,  to  use  his  own 
expression,  he  opened  shop.     First,  the   senators   and    representatives 


RECOLLECTIONS   OE  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  35  I 

had  their  interviews,  one  at  a  time,  each  one  with  his  budget  of  appli- 
cations for  office ;  and  Mr.  Lincoln  often  detained  those  whom  he  liked 
for  a  chat.  Next  came  the  cabinet  officers,  and  by  this  time  it  was 
noon.  Retiring  to  the  dining-room  for  lunch,  Mr.  Lincoln  would  re- 
turn, and  receive  the  people  as  the  King  of  France  used  to  receive  his 
subjects  under  the  great  oak  at  Fontainebleau.  Office-seekers,  refu- 
gees, solicitors  for  pardons,  philanthropists,  and  cranks  swarmed  about 
him,  but  did  not  appear  to  annoy  him. 

On  the  contrary,  he  rather  seemed  to  enjoy  the  rush.  To  one  he 
told  a  story,  to  another  he  gave  advice,  to  a  third  he  demonstrated  that 
he  could  do  nothing.  Indeed,  he  would  say  on  signing  an  order  for  a 
furlough,  "Take  this  to  the  war  department,  but  I  have  very  little 
influence  there." 

About  three  o'clock  the  secretaries  generally  dropped  in,  although 
the  old-fashioned  cabinet-meetings  were  rarely  held.  Later  in  the 
afternoon  he  would  accompany  Mrs.  Lincoln  on  a  drive,  returning  to 
dine  at  five.  In  the  evening  he  occasionally  went  to  the  theatre,  but 
generally  remained  at  home  to  hear  the  requests  and  the  grievances  of 
importunate  place-hunters,  or  would-be  consuls. 

The  leading  Republicans  at  Washington  were  soon  irresistibly 
drawn  towards  him  by  his  hearty  and  unassuming  deportment.  If 
his  manner  was  at  times  somewhat  unusual,  it  was  never  uncouth,  or 
showed  a  lack  of  culture.  The  grasp  of  his  mind  was  strong  and  tena- 
cious ;  and  it  was  evident  that  he  scanned  matters  presented  to  him 
closely,  canvassed  them  thoroughly  in  his  own  mind,  concluded  delib- 
erately, and  held  to  such  conclusions  unflinchingly. 

When  left  to  himself,  he  had  a  depressed,  troubled  look,  and  often 
would  sit  for  hours  gazing  into  the  unknown.  The  key  of  his  voice,  at 
the  same  time,  was  that  of  thorough  frankness,  good-humor,  and  uncon- 
sciousness of  observation.  He  apparently  had  no  dread  of  his  visitors 
seeing  his  mind  exactly  as  it  worked ;  and  he  had  no  care  whatever, 
except  of  thinking  and  speaking  truthfully  what  came  first,  regardless 
of  any  policy,  or  management  of  its  impression  on  the  listener. 

His  stories  were  parables  in  which  he  gave  his  opinion  on  what- 
ever was  presented  to  him,  and  their  very  quaintness  contributed  to 
the  general  good-humor  with  which  they  were  always  received.  He 
possessed  fewer  liberal  accomplishments  and  less  culture  than  his  pre- 
decessors at  the  White  House;  but  he  enjoyed  great,  qualities  which 
they  lacked,  foremost  the  king  quality  of  courage,  physical,  moral,  and 
political. 


352  RECOLLECTIONS   OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

The  lobby  —  that  great  devil-fish,  whose  tentacles  clutch  clammily 
at  the  national  treasury  —  could  never  get  on  the  blind  side  of  Mr. 
Lincoln.  He  treated  them  with  courtesy,  but  would  never  encourage 
their  schemes.  His  favorite  among  the  Washington  correspondents 
was  Mr.  Simon  B.  Hanscom, — a  shrewd  Bostonian,  who  had  been 
identified  with  the  earlier  anti-slavery  movements,  and  who  used  to 
keep  Mr.  Lincoln  informed  as  to  what  was  going  on  in  Washington, 
carrying  him  what  he  heard,  and  seldom  asking  a  favor. 

"  I  see  you  state,"  said  the  President  to  Hanscom  one  day,  "  that 
my  administration  will  be  the  reign  of  steel.  Why  not  add  that 
Buchanan's  was  the  reign  of  stealing?" 

Mr.  Lincoln,  as  I  have  remarked,  spoke  in  parables ;  and  a  story 
often  ended  an  interview  which  otherwise  might  have  been  prolonged 
for  hours.  On  one  occasion  a  distinguished  visitor  was  endeavoring 
to  recall  to  his  mind  a  young  man  whom  he  had  seen,  but  forgotten, 
who  was  an  applicant  for  office.  Mr.  Lincoln  evidently  did  not  think 
that  the  young  man  was  qualified  for  the  position ;  and  he  finally 
said,  — 

"  Oh,  yes !  I  know  who  you  mean.  It  is  that  turkey-egg-faced 
fellow  that  you  would  think  didn't  know  as  much  as  a  last  year's  bird's- 
nest." 

Nothing  more  was  said  about  the  appointment. 

Finding  that  hostilities  were  inevitable,  Mr.  Lincoln  issued  his 
proclamation,  calling  for  seventy-five  thousand  troops,  which  went  over 
the  loyal  North  like  the  signal  of  Roderick  Dhu,  and  was  responded 
to  by  thousands  of  brave  men  who  hastened  to  the  defence  of  the 
metropolis.  The  first  arrival  of  volunteers,  in  response  to  the  procla- 
mation, was  on  the  afternoon  of  March  18,  when  four  companies  came 
from  Pennsylvania.  They  were  neither  armed  nor  uniformed  ;  and  they 
wore  their  old  working-clothing,  expecting  to  throw  it  away  when  sup- 
plied with  uniforms.  Quarters  were  provided  for  them  in  the  Capitol ; 
and,  as  they  marched  into  and  through  the  rotunda,  a  negro  camp- 
follower  named  Nick  Biddle,  who  accompanied  the  Pottsville  company, 
took  off  his  cap.  He  had  been  wounded  in  the  head  by  a  brickbat, 
thrown  at  the  troops  as  they  marched  through  Baltimore,  and  had 
stanched  the  gash  with  his  handkerchief,  which  had  absorbed  the 
blood.  When  he  removed  his  cap,  the  handkerchief  remained  in  it ; 
and  the  blood  dripped  on  the  stone  floors  as  the  man  marched  along,  — 
the  first  blood  shed  in  the  civil  war. 

The   next   afternoon  a   portion   of  the    Massachusetts    Sixth   was 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  353 

assaulted  as  it  moved  through  Baltimore  without  its  field-officers,  they 
having  gone  ahead  of  the  detachment  in  a  car.  Then  there  were  three 
long  days,  during  which  Washington  was  isolated  from  the  North,  and 
when  the  Confederate  forces  on  the  southern  bank  of  the  Potomac 
might  have  easily  occupied  the  metropolis. 

At  last  succor  came ;  and  the  slogan  of  the  Scottish  piper  was  not 
a  more  acceptable  sound  to  the  besieged  British  at  Lucknow,  than  was 
"Yankee  Doodle,"  played  by  the  drums  and  fifes  of  the  Massachusetts 
Eighth,  which  had  come,  under  Gen.  Ben.  Butler,  to  Annapolis,  and 
marched  across  Maryland  to  the  relief  of  Washington.  Regiment 
after  regiment  followed,  many  wearing  the  home  national  uniforms  of 
the  naturalized  citizens  in  their  ranks  who  had  rallied  around  the  flag 
of  their  adopted  country.  Scotch  Highlanders,  Italian  sharp-shooters, 
German  infantry,  and  the  elite  of  the  militia  of  the  loyal  States,  came 
to  Washington,  and  invariably  paid  the  President  a  marching  salute  at 
the  White  House  before  going  to  their  assigned  quarters,  the  music  of 
their  bands  echoing  among  the  public  buildings.  They  came  from  the 
Atlantic  seaports,  from  the  shores  of  the  great  lakes,  from  populous 
cities,  from  rural  homesteads,  to  save  the  capital,  and  to  fight  for  the 
Union.  And  heartily  did  they  cheer  when  they  saw  their  commander- 
in-chief,  —  a  tall  and  ungainly  man,  yet  of  the  people,  and  for  the 
people. 

President  Lincoln  was  much  troubled  as  to  who  should  be  placed 
in  command  of  the  Federal  army ;  and,  after  much  conference,  he  re- 
quested Mr.  Francis  P.  Blair  to  call  on  Col.  Robert  E.  Lee,  then  at 
Arlington,  the  homestead  of  his  wife's  family.  Mr.  Blair  informed 
Col.  Lee  of  the  desire  of  President  Lincoln,  that  he  would  take  com- 
mand of  the  army  which  was  immediately  to  be  brought  into  the  field. 
Col.  Lee,  after  listening  attentively  to  what  was  said,  declined  the 
offer,  stating  candidly  and  courteously,  that  although  he  was  opposed 
to  secession,  and  deprecated  war,  he  could  take  no  part  in  an  invasion 
of  the  Southern  States.  Col.  Lee  went,  after  Mr.  Blair  had  left,  to 
the  headquarters  of  Gen.  Scott,  and  told  him  of  the  proposition  that 
had  been  made  and  declined.  Two  days  afterwards  he  forwarded  his 
resignation,  and  the  next  day  repaired  to  Richmond,  and  found  that 
the  convention  then  in  session  had  passed  the  ordinance  withdrawing 
the  State  from  the  Union,  and  accepted  the  commission  of  commander 
of  the  State's  forces  which  was  tendered  him. 

Among  those  who  came  from  Illinois  to  Washington  with  Mr.  Lin- 
coln, was  a  young  man  named  Ellsworth,  who  had  organized  and  drilled 


354  RECOLLECTIONS   OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

a  Chicago  volunteer  company  with  great  success.  He  hoped  to  be 
placed  in  charge  of  the  militia  of  the  country,  and  Mr.  Lincoln  was 
desirous  that  he  should  have  that  position  ;  but  the  war  department 
was  opposed  to  it.  When  Sumter  was  fired  on,  Ellsworth  hastened  to 
New  York,  and  obtained  the  colonelcy  of  a  regiment  composed  of 
volunteer  firemen,  uniformed  as  Zouaves,  which  he  led  to  Washington. 
One  morning  he  visited  Mr.  Lincoln,  who  showed  him,  from  his  room 
at  the  White  House,  a  Confederate  flag,  which  waved  over  a  hotel  in 
Alexandria,  and  expressed  his  regret  at  its  appearance.  When,  a  few 
days  afterwards,  Col.  Ellsworth  was  ordered  to  Alexandria  in  command 
of  his  regiment,  his  first  thought  was  to  go  personally,  and  seize  that 
flag.  In  taking  it  he  lost  his  life,  falling  in  the  pride  of  his  youth  and 
usefulness.  His  remains  were  brought  to  Washington,  and  President 
Lincoln  wept  as  he  gazed'  on  them.     The  war  had  begun. 

The  great  Uprising  of  the  North  was  a  remarkable  chapter  in  the 
history  of  the  United  States.  Political  alliances,  family  bonds,  and 
commercial  ties  were  all  at  once  rent  asunder,  the  great  Northern  heart 
swelling  with  fierce  indignation.  States  and  cities  sent  men  and  sup- 
plies, the  hardy  yeomanry  and  the  skilful  mechanics  hastened  to  enlist, 
capitalists  furnished  the  funds  for  the  equipment  and  maintenance  of 
the  troops,  and  the  people  of  the  North  encouraged  those  who  repre- 
sented them  in  the  field.  Neither  were  the  loyal  women  backward. 
They  not  only  encouraged  the  enlistment  of  their  fathers,  brothers, 
husbands,  or  lovers,  but  they  kept  the  Union  armies  supplied  with 
more  comforts  than  any  army  had  ever  known  before.  This  devotion 
touched  Mr.  Lincoln's  heart ;  and,  in  a  speech  which  he  made  at  the 
closing  of  a  soldiers'  fair  in  Washington,  he  said,  — 

"  I  am  not  accustomed  to  the  use  of  the  language  of  eulogy.  I  have  never 
studied  the  art  of  paying  compliments  to  women ;  but  I  must  say,  that  if  all  that  has 
been  said  by  orators  and  poets,  since  the  creation  of  the  world,  in  praise  of  women, 
were  applied  to  the  women  of  America,  it  would  not  do  them  justice  for  their  conduct 
during  this  war.     I  will  close  by  saying,  God  bless  the  women  of  America !  " 


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